Chapter 3: Under the Eyes of Father Arture

Forest of the Wailers

The boy woke with his face pressed against the scorched earth, the taste of ashes and dried tears in his mouth. The light of the dead sun, a sickly gray, filtered through the trees, casting twisted shadows over the cabin’s remains. He sat up, his body aching, legs slightly numb from running all night. His mind was a whirlwind, thoughts buzzing like flies on rotting meat. Where is she? What happened to the witch? Where do I go? What do I do now? The surrounding forest seemed to mock him, its silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the mocking cry of something distant.

The hunger that had gnawed at his stomach like a ravenous beast was strangely quiet, dulled by his faint. But he knew it was a temporary truce. It would return soon. He stood, scanning the cabin’s ruins. Nothing. The flames had devoured everything, even the lavender scent that always lingered in the air, swallowed by smoke. He searched for anything, but the destruction was complete, as if nothing built there mattered anymore.

The boy wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing ash and dirt across his skin. Tears still burned in his eye, but he swallowed them, forcing his chest to stop trembling. There was nothing left for him here. The witch—his “mother,” or whatever she was—had vanished, perhaps consumed by the flames, perhaps taken by the six-eyed wolf. He didn’t know, and the uncertainty was a knife in his chest. But staying here, crying over ashes, wouldn’t change anything. There was only one thing to do: move forward.

Taking a deep breath, the cold air cutting his throat, he turned his back on the rubble and entered the forest again. His bare feet, cut and bruised, stepped carefully among thorns and roots. The tattered cape hung from one shoulder, useless against the icy wind howling through the trees. This time, he didn’t look back.

He walked for hours, or perhaps only seconds—the forest’s time was an impossible knot to untangle. The canopy blocked the sky, but the sound of water guided him. He followed it until he found a river, its banks covered in moss and smooth stones. The boy knelt, his body trembling with exhaustion, and stared at his reflection in the water. The face looking back was a stranger: long, tangled purple hair caked with dirt and dried blood; a cloth bandage over his missing eye, his single eye glowing with a mix of fear and determination.

He looked like a cornered animal, a survivor of something he didn’t understand. He plunged his hands into the icy water, washing his face, the cold sensation drawing a sigh. He drank from cupped palms, the bitter but refreshing water filling some of the emptiness in his stomach.

He stood, wiping his hands on the ragged cape, and continued. The forest began to change, the trees growing sparser, the ground less treacherous. The canopy opened, letting in slivers of gray light, and he felt a shift in the air—less rotten. Then, finally, the forest gradually gave way, as if reluctant to release him. The trees thinned into a sparse grove of thorny bushes and yellowed grass. Ahead, a rocky trail wound upward along a gentle slope. It was the first time he’d seen such a thing—a path that seemed to lead somewhere, not just an endless loop within the forest.

The boy stopped, his chest tight. He didn’t know what lay beyond the trail, but the idea of leaving the forest was both liberating and terrifying. The forest was a monster, but it was the monster he knew. Whatever lay out there—villages, cities, people, kingdoms—was an unknown he couldn’t predict. Still, he had no choice. The cabin was destroyed, the witch gone, and hunger would soon return, hungrier than ever.

He took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse, almost lost in the wind. With the tattered cape flapping around his shoulders, he began climbing the trail.

As he hesitantly walked the rocky path, a flicker of hope pierced the despair that had settled over him like a shroud. The trail was narrow and winding, but it was a trail, a tangible sign that he was no longer lost in the forest’s endless maze.

He walked slowly, his bare feet aching and bleeding from the sharp stones covering the path, but he refused to let the pain stop him.

As he climbed, he noticed changes around him. The air grew fresher, the trees sparser, and the undergrowth gave way to patches of dry grass and local flora. It was as if the forest was reluctantly yielding to the encroaching world beyond, a world the boy had only heard whispers of in the witch’s cryptic tales. Everything was still dead, tinged gray by the lifeless sun.

Then he heard a voice, so unexpected and strange that he froze, his heart pounding. A man, dressed in a tattered tunic and breeches, was walking down the trail toward him. The man was older, with wrinkles creasing the corners of his eyes. He carried a large pack on his back, bulging with various goods.

“Well, what in the name of our Lord Jesus—” the man said, his voice weary as he approached the boy. “What’re you doin’ here? You hurt, kid? Lost?” He stopped a few steps away, his eyes scanning the boy’s ragged, filthy appearance, lingering for a moment on the bandaged eye.

The boy said nothing, his eye narrowing as he watched the stranger warily. He’d never seen a man like this before, with his clothes and confident demeanor. The witch had always warned him about strangers, dangers lurking in the world beyond the forest. “Name’s Elias,” the old man said, forcing a smile as he leaned on a staff. “I’m a peddler, a supplier of goods and basic necessities. Been travelin’ the land for sixty years, bringin’ wares to those who need ‘em most.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the boy’s malnourished frame again. “By the look of you... you could use a meal. Where’re your parents, kid? They must be worried sick with you wanderin’ out here alone.”

The boy stayed silent, jaw clenched as he tried to decide whether to trust the stranger. He was starving, exhausted, and desperate, but he knew the dangers that lurked in the world’s shadows.

Elias seemed to sense the boy’s hesitation, and his smile softened, his voice taking on a gentler tone. “No need to be scared, lad. I don’t mean you no harm. In fact, I can help you, if you’ll let me.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a small bundle, offering it to the boy. “Here, take this. It’s some bread and cheese, nothin’ fancy, but it’ll fill your belly and give you strength.”

The boy hesitated, his stomach churning with hunger as the scent of food wafted through the air. He hadn’t eaten in days, and the offer was tempting, but he knew he had to be cautious.

Elias seemed to understand the boy’s dilemma and lowered his hand. “Tell you what, kid. I’ve got a proposition for you. By your state, I reckon you might not have a home.” The boy nodded cautiously, keeping one eye on the bundle of bread. The old man continued, “As you might’ve noticed, at my age, my back ain’t what it used to be. If you could help me carry my goods to the city... what do you say?”

The boy hesitated further. He knew trusting strangers was dangerous—the witch had drilled that into him with tales of men who smiled with wolf’s teeth and hungry eyes. But the old man seemed different, weary like him. And anyway, the boy was alone now.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, almost swallowed by the wind. “I’ll help.”

Elias smiled, the wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Good choice, kid.” He tossed the bundle of bread to the boy, who caught it with trembling hands. “Eat while we walk. The city ain’t too far, but the path’s treacherous.”

The boy tore open the cloth, the smell of stale bread and sour cheese filling the air. He bit into it eagerly, the dry bread scratching his throat, the greasy cheese melting on his tongue. It was the best thing he’d tasted in days. As he chewed, Elias handed him a smaller bag from the bulging pack. “Put this on your back. It ain’t heavy, but it’ll keep me from droppin’ dead before we reach Maragônia.”

The boy slung the bag over his shoulder, the weight uncomfortable but bearable. The rocky trail stretched on, but the food in his stomach gave him strength he hadn’t felt in days. Elias walked ahead, his staff tapping the ground in a steady rhythm, muffled by the wind carrying the scent of dry earth and, further ahead, something else—rust, perhaps, or old blood.

As they walked, Elias passed a leather canteen to the boy. “Drink. Water from a clean stream, not that filth you find around here.” The boy took a sip, the cold water soothing his dry throat. He handed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and noticed Elias watching him with a curious look.

“What’s your name, kid?” the old man asked, his tone casual but with a hint of interest that made the boy pause.

He thought about the question. Under the old man’s gaze, he felt an emptiness where a name should be. “Don’t have one,” he replied softly, almost ashamed.

Elias raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “No name, huh? Well, I’ve seen worse. Where you from, then? You don’t look like you were born ‘round these parts.”

The boy stared at the ground, the stones passing under his feet. The forest was still a shadow at his back, and talking about it felt like opening a wound. “The forest,” he said finally. “A cabin. But... it burned down. My...” He stopped, the word “mother” dying in his throat. “The woman who took care of me is gone.”

Elias let out a low whistle, almost lost in the wind. “The forest, eh? Cursed place. Heard stories from there that’d make a grown man cry like a babe. You got out alive, that’s more than most can say.” He paused, tapping his staff harder. “And that bandage on your eye? Some beast get you?”

The boy touched the bandage, the memory of the crow still burning in his mind. “A bird,” he murmured. “When I was a baby. She... the woman... stitched it up.”

Elias shook his head, his face hardening. “Cruel world, kid. But you’re here, walkin’, so you’re tougher than you look.” He gave a crooked smile, showing yellowed teeth. “Stick with me till Maragônia. We’ll figure out what to do with you there.”

The boy nodded, the weight of the bag on his back and the bread in his stomach anchoring him to the moment. He didn’t know if he trusted Elias, but for the first time in days, he didn’t feel entirely alone. The trail continued, the terrain flattening, the sparse vegetation giving way to a gray clearing where dry grass crunched underfoot. The sky, dull and lifeless, seemed to press down on the world, as if trying to crush it.

After hours, the silhouette of Maragônia appeared on the horizon. The city was a blur of crooked buildings, made of rotting wood and chipped stone, scattered like broken bones in a dead valley. Smoke rose from twisted chimneys, mingling with the low-hanging fog. The sounds of shouts, hoarse laughter, and clanging metal echoed even from a distance. The smell of Maragônia hit before the city itself—sweat, manure, beer, and something sharper, like burned flesh.

State of Maragônia

Elias stopped, leaning on his staff. “Welcome to Maragônia, kid. Ain’t paradise, but it’s what we got.” He laughed, a dry, joyless sound. “Stay sharp. Here, everybody wants somethin’, and not all of ‘em ask nicely.”

The boy stared at the city, his yellow iris trembling. The narrow streets teemed with movement—men with knives hanging from their belts, women in revealing clothes in alleys, children darting through shadows, some with gazes as sharp as blades. A cart rattled by, pulled by a donkey, the driver shouting obscenities at a group of men playing dice in the gutter. In a corner, two men traded punches, blood staining the earth as others watched, laughing and betting rusty coins.

“This is... a city?” the boy asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Elias shrugged. “It’s what’s left of one. Maragônia used to be better, the old folks say. Now it’s just a rat’s nest, where the strong or the clever survive.” He looked at the boy, his smile returning but now with a hint of warning. “If you wanna live here, learn fast. And don’t trust nobody right off, not even old men like me. You got lucky I’m just lookin’ to sell my wares.”

The boy swallowed hard, the bag’s weight feeling heavier now. Maragônia was a different kind of monster from the forest, but just as hungry. He wasn’t sure if he was ready, but the trail had brought him here, and turning back wasn’t an option. With Elias by his side, he took his first step toward the city, heart pounding, yellow eye gleaming with a mix of fear and determination.

The boy followed Elias through Maragônia’s winding streets, the dry earth scorching underfoot. The bag’s weight on his back was now a familiar burden, but the city’s stench still made him wrinkle his nose. The streets were a living chaos, with vendors shouting prices for rotten food, scrawny dogs growling in alleys, and furtive glances that seemed to dissect him. He kept his gaze down, avoiding the faces passing by, each seeming to carry a secret as filthy as the mud beneath their feet.

Elias stopped in a quieter corner where the street narrowed between two rotting wooden buildings. He leaned on his staff and looked at the boy, noticing his bloodied feet, the cuts open from the trail’s stones. “Sit down, kid. Those feet are a mess. You won’t make it to the orphanage if you collapse first.”

The boy hesitated but obeyed, sitting on a smooth stone. Elias knelt with a grunt, his joints cracking like dry twigs. From his pack, he pulled a tattered cloth and a vial of murky liquid smelling of bitter herbs. “Ain’t fancy, but it’ll keep gangrene out of those feet,” he muttered, wetting the cloth and cleaning the boy’s cuts. The liquid stung, making the boy bite his lip to stifle a groan. Elias worked in silence for a moment, then spoke, his voice lower. “No parents, no name, and comin’ from that hell of a forest... You’re a mystery, kid. How’d you survive so long?”

The boy shrugged, his gaze fixed on the cloth turning red with his blood. “She took care of me,” he said, the word “she” heavy, as if it hurt to say. “But now she’s gone. I don’t know what happened.”

Elias shook his head, tying clean cloth strips around the boy’s feet. “The world swallows the weak, and sometimes even the strong. But you’re here, and that’s somethin’.” He stood, wiping his hands on his tattered tunic. “Can’t carry you with me forever. I’m an old man, and Maragônia ain’t no place for a kid alone. But I know a place you can stay. The São Dantas Orphanage. My brother, Father Arture, runs it. Ain’t a palace, but it’s a roof, food, and maybe a chance to survive.”

The boy frowned, the word “orphanage” sounding strange, like something from a world he didn’t understand. “Orphanage?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

“A place for kids like you. No parents, no one. Arture’s... well, he’s a man of God, far as I know. You’ll have a place to sleep there, at least till you’re big enough to fend for yourself.” Elias paused, his gaze hardening. “Trust me.”

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The boy nodded slowly, unsure if he had a choice. The idea of a place with other children was both curious and frightening. He’d known no one but the witch, and now Elias. But the trail had brought him here, and he couldn’t go back to the forest. “Alright,” he murmured.

Elias gave a light slap on the boy’s shoulder, more practical than kind. “Let’s go, then. It ain’t far.”

The walk to the orphanage was short, but Maragônia’s air felt heavier as they approached. The São Dantas Orphanage loomed at the city’s edge, an ancient structure of rubble and wood, with cracked walls and crooked windows covered by broken boards. The roof was cloaked in black moss, and a chimney released thin smoke smelling of ashes and something sweet, like rancid incense. A rusty iron gate guarded the entrance, and above it, a painted portrait of São Dantas dominated the hall. The saint was a pale man, his blond hair falling like old gold, clad in medieval armor that seemed too heavy for his thin frame. His irises and pupils were white, giving him an empty, almost blind stare that made the boy shudder.

The place’s atmosphere was oppressive, as if the air carried an invisible weight. Nuns walked the corridors, some smoking cigarettes, the smoke curling as their hollow eyes followed the boy. Children peeked from dark corners, hunched, their pale, thin faces and dull eyes watching. Some sat in classrooms, reciting texts in monotone voices while a nun slapped a ruler on a desk to keep rhythm.

Elias knocked on the gate, and after a moment, it creaked open. A tall, thin man appeared, wearing a faded black cassock, his gray hair combed back, his face so pale it seemed carved from wax. This was Father Arture. His eyes, sunken and ringed with dark circles, looked like they hadn’t slept in months. He smiled at Elias, but the smile was sticky, clinging to the boy’s skin. “Brother,” Arture said, his voice low and drawling. “What a surprise. And who is this... child of God?”

“A kid I found on the trail,” Elias replied bluntly. “No name, no parents, from the forest. Needs a place. Thought you could take him.”

Arture tilted his head, his eyes fixed on the boy, lingering on the bandage. “From the forest, is it?” he murmured, as if savoring the words. “A survivor, I can feel it. Interesting.” He extended a hand, his long, bony fingers hovering near the boy’s shoulder but not touching. “Come, child. Here, you’ll have a home.”

The boy stepped back instinctively, his eye narrowing. Something in Arture’s tone and the glint in his eyes reminded him of the witch in her most possessive moments. Elias seemed to notice the hesitation but only shrugged. “He’s yours now, Arture. Take care of him.” He looked at the boy, his face hardening. “Be smart, kid. And good luck.” Without another word, Elias turned away, his staff tapping the earth as he walked off, leaving the boy alone with the priest.

Arture gestured for the boy to follow. “Come, there’s nothing to fear,” he said, his voice too sweet, like spoiled honey. He led him through the main corridor. The orphanage’s interior was even more oppressive, the air thick with the smell of mold, incense, and something metallic. The walls were covered with portraits of stern saints, and candles flickered in niches, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own.

Capital of Maragônia — São Dantas Orphanage

Along the way, the boy saw more children—some sweeping the floor, others sitting in silence, their eyes fixed on nothing. A thin, pale girl with dirty blond hair cut unevenly glanced at him briefly before looking away, as if afraid to be caught. The sound of a nun coughing, a cigarette dangling between her fingers, echoed through the corridors.

Father Arture led him to a claustrophobic office, his height nearly brushing the ceiling, with a cracked wooden desk and stacks of yellowed papers. A bookshelf overflowed with books beside the desk. A crucifix hung on the wall behind his chair, and a boarded-up window let in slivers of light. The priest sat, pointing to a hard chair. “Sit, child,” he said, taking a quill and a document. “Here at São Dantas, we’re pleased to receive you under the eyes of our Lord...” he said, gesturing to a startlingly realistic statuette of a crucified figure resembling Jesus. “You’ll study, study, and obey. In return, you’ll have food, a roof, and God’s protection.” He smiled again, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “Sign here. Any name will do.”

The boy stared at the paper, his heart tight. He recalled what the witch had taught him about the imperial alphabet and how to read. But Arture’s sticky, insistent gaze made him pick up the quill. He traced a shaky “Ka,” the letter of brute strength his “mother” had taught him. Arture nodded, satisfied. “Good. You’ll adapt, I’m sure...” He made the sign of the cross with his hand.

The boy, now with an improvised name—Ka, scrawled shakily on Arture’s paper—felt the weight of São Dantas Orphanage close over him completely. The priest’s office was heavier than ever, an oppressive, unpleasant feeling, the air thick with a strange fish-like smell. Arture rose from his chair. “Come, Ka,” he said, his voice drawling as if savoring the name. “I’ll show you who you follow now.”

The boy followed, his gaze darting through the orphanage’s dark corridors. The stone walls were damp, stained with leaks that formed indistinct shapes, like silently screaming faces. Candles flickered in niches, casting writhing shadows, and portraits of empty-eyed saints stared from all sides. The one of São Dantas seemed especially alive, as if it could step out of the frame and walk among them. Nuns passed through the corridors, utterly unconcerned, as if holiness was the last thing present here. One swore when she nearly tripped near the boy.

Arture led him to a communal dormitory, a long, narrow room with rows of thin iron bunk beds, their thin mattresses covered in rough sheets smelling of sweat and semen. “Here’s where you sleep,” the priest said, pointing to a bed in the corner, its mattress stained with something yellowish. “Wake at the first bell, five o’clock. Bath, study, prayer, study, work, study, sleep. Don’t be late; it’s not tolerated.” He smiled again, placing his long hand on the boy’s shoulder, stroking it. The boy noticed a stigma on the priest’s hand.

“Our Lord guides us, child. He sees everything.”

The boy nodded, his heart tight. He didn’t know what a bell was, but Arture’s tone made it clear disobedience had a price. The priest leaned closer, his face so near the boy could smell his sour breath, mixed with rancid incense. “You’re special, Ka. I can feel it. But here, everyone must bow to the same God. Understood?”

“Yes,” the boy murmured, avoiding the priest’s eyes.

Arture straightened, satisfied, and left the dormitory, his cassock dragging on the wooden floor. The boy stood alone, the room’s silence broken only by the soft snoring of a child sleeping in one of the beds. He sat on the assigned bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.

The first day began with the clang of a bell, startling the boy, a metallic sound slicing through sleep like a knife. He rose, body still aching, vision blurred by exhaustion. The other children were already up, moving like ghosts, wearing ragged tunics that seemed cut from the same dirty cloth. Ka grabbed a tunic tossed at the foot of his bed and put it on, the rough fabric scraping his skin.

He was led with the other children to a vast hall, damp and cold, located far from the orphanage’s other wings. The air was heavy, hot. The rough stone walls dripped with leaks, and the cracked tile floor was slippery, covered in a layer of slime that clung to bare feet.

Ka walked behind the other children, his thin frame hunched, arms crossed over his chest to hide his vulnerability. His skin was white, not pale, like someone who’d spent time in the sun. His feet, still bandaged with Elias’s cloths, seemed to be in better shape, the dirt washing away as he walked.

The boy was tall for his twelve years, shaped by hunger and the forest, but his muscles, though thin, had a hardness forged by survival.

The nuns, dark figures with ill-fitting veils and faces hard as stone, led the children with short, sharp orders. One, with burn scars on her neck, carried an iron bucket of icy water, the liquid sloshing as she shouted, “Move it, you worms! We don’t have all day to clean this filth!” Her tone was cruel, and the boy noticed how the other children lowered their heads, shoulders hunched, as if fearing a blow at any moment.

There, the children were forced to strip. Ka hesitated, his fingers trembling as he pulled off the ragged tunic they’d given him. He’d never been naked before others, except in the witch’s presence, and the feeling of exposure made him want to vanish. He sat on the cold floor, pulling his knees to his chest, his bony knees pressing against his torso, trying to make himself as small as possible. The other children did the same, some covering their faces, others staring at the floor, as if stripping was an act of surrender.

Ka’s body told his story in silence. There were smaller marks—forest scratches, poorly healed cuts on his arms and legs, and an old burn on his thigh from when, as a small child, he’d gotten too close to the witch’s cauldron. He shivered, not just from the cold water he knew was coming, but from the weight of the gazes, the uncertainty of what would become of him.

The scarred nun dumped the bucket of icy water over Ka. The shock stole a gasp, the water streaming through his hair, dripping.

“Scrub, boy!” she growled, tossing a worn sponge. “We don’t want lice here!” The sponge scratched his skin as Ka scrubbed, trying to wash away the dirt of recent days and the forest. But the feeling of being watched didn’t fade. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Father Arture, his gaze fixed on a younger girl scrubbing her arms so hard her skin turned red.

The other children were a reflection of the same suffering. An older boy scrubbed his body mechanically, his eyes dead, as if he’d given up on living. Another child, a thin girl with unevenly cut hair, coughed incessantly, the wet, painful sound echoing in the hall. Ka noticed purple marks on her wrists, as if large hands had gripped her too tightly. He looked away, his stomach churning at the thought of what these children endured.

Among the children, there were signs of abuse Ka didn’t fully understand but felt in the air. A smaller boy, with sunken eyes, trembled so much he could barely hold the cloth, and Ka glimpsed whip marks on his thighs, thin and red, like lines drawn in anger. Another child, hiding in a corner, seemed to avoid sudden movements, as if knowing any mistake could bring punishment. The sound of a ruler smacking desks in the classrooms echoed here, mingling with the nuns’ whispers and the muffled sobs of someone Ka couldn’t see.

When the bath ended, the children were ordered to put on clean tunics—or what passed for clean, as the fabric was stained and smelled of dampness. Ka dressed and followed the others out of the bath hall. The cold still clung to his bones.

The classroom was a cold stone cubicle, with crooked desks lined in sloppy rows, on the second floor. A boarded-up window let in slivers of gray light from outside, and a fat candle flickered on the teacher’s desk, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Ka sat at a desk in the back, trying to blend in with the other children. They were hunched over old notebooks, scribbling with broken quills, while the nun—a tall, obese woman—paced between the desks, her ruler snapping against her palm.

“SILENCE!” she roared, her sunken eyes sweeping the room. “Stop writing, and you’ll get a whipping. Learn! Or our Lord Jesus will rip out your souls!”

The blackboard was covered in chalk scribbles, study books telling the history of the kingdom and the holy prophet, Jesus Christ, the Ascended, the most prominent cult among the strongest kingdoms around the Earth, his story described in the book, which Ka took time to read.

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, this is the justice of the holy prophet, the Ascended, Jesus Christ.

In the ashes of the old world, in the city of Jerá, a child was born of a virgin mother—his father whispered in rumors as the ‘False God.’ This mortal child grew with silent grace, gathering twelve apostles around him as he proclaimed salvation through strength and dominion. He was called Jesus Christ, the Savior of Humanity—destined to restore order to a fractured kingdom.

Jesus taught compassion, hope, and forgiveness—but behind his gentle gospel was something fierce: vengeance for tyranny. Corrupt kings and sultans feared his message. They seized him, nailed him to a cross, and left him to die in public humiliation. The year was called ‘Year 0,’ marking his rebirth and the dawn of a new calendar.

But, like an unholy resurrection, Jesus rose after three days—not to preach peace, but to enact bloody justice. Returning to his apostles, he led them in a relentless campaign of vengeance, slaying the tyrants who crucified him and destroying the old world order to build a new one—with himself enthroned at its center.

His symbol was the cross, once an instrument of death, now consecrated as the emblem of power. He ascended to the divine city of Al-Yerushalaim, shedding his mortal shell in a tomb near the ancient city—but leaving it behind in death. And yet, his vengeance endured in the flesh-torn landscape he left behind. However, the ascension of our holy prophet came at a dark cost. To purify his soul and gain divine ascendancy, he carved out his darker half—his hatred and wrath—and cast it into the sulfurous pits in the world’s depths.

From that shadow forged by sin emerged the Sulfur God, a fracture of vengeance that now may reign in place of our holy prophet—especially in the west, where worship of Jesus took on a blood-obsessed cruelty. Some believe the ‘Jesus’ of the west is, in fact, this sulfurous twin—a furious deity whose face is marked by a single eye, a sign of his fractured being. Meanwhile, the original, gentle mortal Jesus may remain trapped in torment below, his true nature lost to the ascendancy of his shadow.”

The lesson spoke of violence as virtue: “Strength is the voice of God,” the nun said, slamming the ruler on the desk. “The weak perish, the strong inherit glory.”

Ka wrote the words on paper, his quill trembling. He pondered the existence of such a deity, wondering if such a being could truly exist among mere humans, abandoned even by the sun. He thought if he embraced the religion of our Lord as the only truth, whether he’d be freed from all this suffering.

The nun’s tone made it clear mistakes weren’t an option. The other children wrote in silence, some with ink-stained fingers, others with visible bruises on their wrists. He saw the pale girl, white as a candle, sitting two desks ahead, the same one who’d exchanged a glance with him earlier. Her dirty blond hair was likely her only normal feature. She coughed softly, a wet sound that drew a sharp glance from the nun, but she said nothing.

Suddenly, a subtle movement. The girl dropped something—a folded piece of paper that slid across the floor, stopping near Ka’s foot. He froze, his heart racing. The nun was at the blackboard, scribbling, but her footsteps echoed, and she could turn at any moment. Ka bent quickly, pretending to adjust his tunic, and grabbed the note, hiding it in his palm. He glanced at the girl, but she was already hunched over her notebook, as if nothing had happened.

When the nun turned, slamming the ruler on the desk, Ka flinched. He opened the paper discreetly under the desk, the words scrawled in shaky handwriting: “Safe spot. Midnight. Behind the well in the courtyard. Want to talk to you.” No name, but the message’s weight made him swallow hard. He didn’t know if it was a trap, but something about the girl—perhaps her being just a child, as if she too carried invisible scars—felt real.

The lesson continued, the nun’s voice cutting the silence. She spoke of the kingdom, the Empire of Brazil, now reduced to states, rural corners, and forgotten cities like Maragônia, where the law was a knife in the hand of whoever cut first. Before the sun died, the kingdoms were vast, ruled by kings under the blessing of the Old Gods.

Ka listened to the lecture, but his mind was on the note. The blond girl didn’t look at him again during the lesson. Now, at midnight, he had a commitment—answers or more confusion. But for now, he had to keep obeying the system.

The bell rang again. The obese nun slammed the ruler on the desk one last time, her eyes sweeping the children. “Get up, you rats! Time to eat. And no chitchat on the way!” The children obeyed in silence, dragging their ragged tunics, first stowing their notebooks in the desks, each secured with a password. Ka followed the flow of bodies through the orphanage’s damp corridors.

The dining hall was a long, dimly lit room with chipped metal tables arranged in rows under a low, stained ceiling. The smell was worse here. Another nun stood guard at the door, a wooden club with a rusty nail embedded in it hanging from her belt. The children formed a disorderly line, grabbing dented tin bowls and bent spoons from a pile. Ka gripped his tightly, the cold metal against his fingers, his stomach rumbling despite the bread from Elias still sitting in his belly.

The food was served by another nun, who ladled a watery gray broth into the bowls, chunks of something that might be potato or meat floating on the surface. Beside it was a basket of hard bread, so dry it seemed like stone. Ka took a piece, the smell of mold rising, and turned to find a seat. The tables were nearly full, the children eating in silence, eyes fixed on their bowls, as if fearing the food might escape.

As he walked, a bony leg shot out from a nearby chair, deliberately tripping him. Ka stumbled, his bowl slipping from his hands and clattering to the stone floor. The broth splashed, staining his tunic and the tiles, the bread rolling until it hit the wall. A stifled laugh came from some children but stopped quickly when the nun at the door slammed her club against the wall. “Silence!” she shouted, her eyes fixed on Ka. “Clean up that mess, boy, or you’ll lick the floor!”

Ka dropped to his knees, his face hot with shame and anger. He glanced at the boy who’d tripped him—an older kid with a smirk, who went back to eating as if nothing had happened. Ka gathered the bread and soggy potato pieces, wiping the broth with his hands, the cold, viscous liquid running between his fingers. The nun watched, her club swaying, as if waiting for a reason to use it.

With the bowl recovered, now half-empty, not that it mattered much, Ka stood, eyes down to avoid further trouble. He walked to an empty table in the corner, far from the other children, and sat, the bench creaking under his weight. The broth was cold, tasting of earth and salt, but he swallowed it anyway, savoring each spoonful and bite of bread—it was this or starve.

As he ate, he looked around. The blond girl was a few tables away, hunched over her bowl. Ka tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look up.

The other children ate in silence, many with visible signs of beatings. The nun at the door tapped her club against her palm, a steady rhythm that reminded Ka of something he wanted to forget.

A deep tap-tap buried in his mind.

The dining hall, like the rest of the orphanage, was a place where survival demanded more than strength—it required cunning, silence, and the ability to go unnoticed. Ka finished the broth, his stomach still rumbling, and tucked the rest of the bread into his tunic. He’d need all the strength he could muster for what awaited at midnight.