Chapter 5. Auriel

Walking past the abandoned building, she glanced at her reflection in the broken glass. Her back had hunched again, as if her will, worn down by pain, wanted to surrender to its fate.

"Not this time," she whispered, straightening up.

Pain echoed anew through her consciousness, piercing the iliocostalis muscle along its entire length.

"Not so bad. A reminder," she thought, spreading her shoulders even wider. "Isn't this how they train the will—choosing between pain and submission?"

She examined a building. About seven feet high, peeling walls—this used to be a bar, now just ruins where they'd played hide-and-seek as children. Through the darkness she couldn't see, but she knew—there by the distant wall, the colorful drawing she and her sister had made still remained. Two princesses—of the Moon and Sun—holding hands against a starry sky.

"Illusions," she turned away. "Princesses of Moon and Sun... It came true in a way. Ugly and sad."

The last word, as if breaking free from the grip of her consciousness, touched the empty walls in a quiet whisper.

"Time flew by so quickly," she continued surveying the surroundings, remembering the past. Here they'd played hide-and-seek, there—tag. And on this corner she and her sister had fought the neighborhood gang. Their group had included him too—the eternal protector, always covering the backs of those who rushed headlong into anything. The one she'd just killed.

She wasn't an idealist and understood—life is complex, people change, taking on ugly forms.

Passing a busy intersection where people were already gathering, she remembered how she'd stolen food from the stalls with that Tenebre she'd seen recently. As often happens, sooner or later, especially if you're a child, you get caught. That time they didn't catch her, but the Tenebre. It changed the latter—something in her broke completely.

Walking further through narrow bridges and dark alleys, she approached where her sister should be. At the edge of her vision, children played with a ball, as if unbothered by the bustle reigning everywhere.

"At least the children of the Lower City aren't infected with that plague yet. Though these ones... They have something else," she quickly swept her gaze over the playing children, knowing where to look.

The older boy had a black eye, carefully smeared with dirt. The younger girl limped but tried not to show it. Another had characteristic rope marks on his wrists. Obvious, if minor, details that people prefer not to notice.

Passing through crowds of people who didn't notice the blood on her cloak, she emerged at one of the quarter's central places. The square hummed with countless voices.

Crowds always oppressed her, but today, to her own surprise, she didn't grimace in her usual contempt. As if finally accepting herself, she didn't mind dissolving in this human sea.

The mark etched into soul of mine,

No water washes, light can't burn.

My curse and grace in one design,

The cross I bear at every turn.

Indifferent to her own transformation, she turned her gaze immediately to the strange people in black blindfolds who stood, cordoning off the crowd.

"The Empire's dogs," she thought.

Rootless, detached from life, tortured and tormented, broken to obediently follow the Empire's call.

Her usual smile appeared on her face.

"How well the soul fits into a form created by a skilled creator. So obedient, bound by ties of honor, faith, and blind devotion to order."

She stood at the high point, contemplating the multitude of people watching the procession. The crowd seethed, shouting curses, but kept a safe distance from the guards.

Suddenly one of the gazers—a young man with a crazed look—lunged forward, shouting:

"Get out of our home!"

The blindfolded guard reacted instantly. One smooth motion—a strike to the jaw—and the rebel collapsed. The guard didn't even deign to look at him, resuming his position. The movement was precise as a guillotine's blow. The crowd recoiled, outrage replaced by fear.

"Trained in basic combat magic. And even so—strong, at least physically."

She had no doubt—if they wished, a handful of these perfectly drilled dogs, accustomed to synchronized combat, would slaughter the entire crowd, regardless that their own people might be among the victims. And the crowd knew it. That's why they feared.

A bell's strike cut through the air. The crowd fell silent for a moment, then with the first cry buzzed again like a disturbed hive.

An official—one of the empire's bureaucrats—walked to the center of the square, demonstratively unfurling a scroll with seals.

"Auriel the Rootless is accused of betraying the Empire, conspiring with enemies of the state, and desecrating the sacred Gods!" his voice, amplified by magic, carried across the square. "By the will of the Council and decision of the High Tribunal—death by crucifixion is decreed!"

The girl with the scarred eye stood silently, waiting for her sister's appearance, unable to do anything.

"Betrayal," she thought. "We're not even considered citizens, but we must worship their gods unquestioningly."

She shifted her gaze to the crowd, searching for familiar faces.

"They didn't come. No one will save you, sister."

Looking over those gathered, it was hard to tell if there was explosive force among them capable of turning the situation. But she knew—there wasn't.

"Maybe you'll come?" The image of a white-haired young man flashed through her consciousness but just as quickly melted away.

The crowd fell silent. A girl appeared, accompanied by a guard in a white blindfold, carrying a heavy cross on her shoulders. Her once-long black hair had been cut and hung in dirty strands. Her face was covered in bruises and abrasions, and her once-proud bearing was broken by the weight of the crossbeam. A wooden placard dangled from her neck with an inscription in three languages: "Blasphemer."

"Betrayed. By her own people."

Her mother had been an ordinary southerner, but her father... He came from a closed people with their own special cult, condemned and persecuted as a threat to the empire's stability. Their traditions spoke of a prophet appearing once every hundred years, heralding the messiah's coming. And though the prophet never appeared, that seed awakened in her sister, after which their family, already tormented by hard labor, suffered terrible losses.

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The Empire couldn't ignore a cult believing in the One God in contrast to the official pantheon adopted by the Empire.

Twice Auriel fell under the beam's weight. The dogs raised her with kicks and whip strikes, forcing her to continue. The crowd alternately shouted insults and fell silent, stupid in its inconsistency.

"I don't know who they hate more—their executioners or the cultists they spread rumors about."

She had no doubt—many stories about that people were lies. A simple way to direct the Lower City's enormous mistrust and suspicion against the empire's enemies. Sometimes it seemed to her that these quarters' dire state wasn't the authorities' oversight. Oh no, this was targeted policy of constant division and segregation as a tool of control.

"I must admit, they achieve control with filigree precision."

Finally the procession reached the platform in the square's center. The vertical post was already installed, dug deep into the stones.

The guards tore the remaining clothes from the condemned, leaving only a rough loincloth. Nakedness was part of the humiliation, part of the ritual. The crowd buzzed—some looked away, some stared with morbid curiosity.

But Auriel's face remained impassive, as if what was happening had nothing to do with her. Torn wounds—traces of scourging with a whip woven with bone and metal shards—covered her back in a bloody pattern of dried and fresh blood.

"You’re not coming, actually?" the thought flashed through Sumarel's mind again, and her body jerked as if she herself felt all that pain.

"On your knees!" the guard barked.

The girl didn't comply, continuing to stand hunched under the beam's weight. A precise boot strike to the popliteal fossa—and she crashed to the stones. Her arms were roughly stretched along the crossbeam, tied with ropes.

The first nail entered her wrist with a wet crunch, piercing bones and tendons between the radius and ulna. She cried out—a short, strangled sound, more like an exhale.

The second nail was driven into the other wrist. Blood streamed down the wood, soaking into the old timber.

The third nail—the largest—was hammered through her feet placed together, piercing the metatarsal bones through.

"The expected messiah was supposed to be male," she mused, watching the execution. "And the woman to bear him—one in whose veins flows the chosen people's blood. Patriarchal dogmas, harsh adherence to canons. Deviations unacceptable."

"Order and strict compliance... Maybe there's something to it. On the other hand, lack of flexibility led to enmity, internal schism. And here's the result—the long-awaited messiah fought for them, but in vain."

The guards raised the beam with the nailed body and began installing it on the vertical post. The moment of connection—the cross jerked, falling into the prepared hole. The condemned's body followed, hanging on the nails. There was a crunch of tearing muscles and tendons, but Auriel didn't scream. Only her labored breathing revealed she was still alive.

"You took so much upon yourself, sister," she thought, shifting her gaze to the crowd. "You wanted to help not just your people, but all the Lower City's inhabitants. They didn't appreciate it. You should have brought them victories, even if it meant sacrificing them all. Oh, they would have kissed your hands if you'd placed them on the sacrificial altar! But you decided to bear this cross alone. You only sowed seeds in them. Will they sprout? Will they have enough time?"

Something inside her twitched, as if another thread of her soul had decayed, revealing its deathly glow.

To breathe, Auriel had to pull herself up on her nail-pierced arms, pushing with her feet against the nail. Each breath required movement, each movement brought a new wave of agony. And yet she remained silent.

The crowd gradually quieted. The spectacle of slow death quickly lost its entertaining value, turning into an agonizing wait. An hour passed. The sun above the surface had already set, but here in the Lower City it didn't matter. Magical lanterns brightly lit the execution site, casting long, dancing shadows.

Auriel was silent. Her brown eyes, once full of life, looked somewhere through the crowd, as if searching for someone. But her gaze, like a blind person's, only slid over faces, unable to focus on anything.

"We're leaving," commanded the man in the white blindfold, apparently responsible for the procedure.

The formation of dogs, as if controlled by a single mind, turned and marched away in perfect order. People began approaching closer, but an invisible barrier, extending ten meters around the cross, kept them back.

The guard with the white blindfold approached the crucified woman. His lips moved—words hidden by magic didn't reach the crowd. Then he made a thin, precise cut on Auriel's right arm. Blood, pulsing with life energy, began dripping onto the stones.

"If I had even a drop of magical ability..." she thought, approaching the very edge of the barrier and watching as the guard made the cut. "You awakened, sister, but spent all your strength on heroism no one appreciated."

And though outwardly she seemed unperturbed, a fire raged in her soul. Her entire being was consumed by the sight of her sister, with whom she'd once played and laughed. This wasn't just the execution of a loved one—this was the execution of her own part.

Shadows spread in all directions, fleeing from light, then refracted at strange angles, as if space itself distorted, concealing itself from view. But the people, gripped by bloodlust for spectacle, noticed nothing. Like the girl whose gaze was fixed on her sister's face, who seemed to see no one anymore.

Except, perhaps, one...

"Auriel," the girl said, touching the invisible barrier.

Their gazes met—and the world plunged into darkness. People around froze, as if time itself had stopped. Shadows thickened, swallowing all light except what emanated from the crucified girl.

"Sumarel," Auriel's voice sounded pure and soft, without a trace of pain or exhaustion. "Look at me."

But Sumarel didn't hear, didn't see, didn't feel, as if surrendering to a hidden will that had seized her completely. Passing through the barrier, a dagger appeared in her hand—sharpened and rusty, covered in dried blood.

"Your god didn't appreciate your sacrifice," Sumarel said in a voice devoid of emotion.

"Why do you need that knife, sister?" Auriel's voice didn't waver.

Sumarel didn't listen, approaching closer covered by the shadows. With each step spreading the shadow space closer to her sister.

"Please, don't do this," said Auriel, "don't judge me, not you, Sumarel."

The hand with the knife trembled, and her gaze met again with her sister's once-brown eyes.

"By giving your gift to others, you signed your own sentence," Sumarel, confident, perhaps for the first time in her life knowing exactly what to do, pulled a coin from her pocket.

"Don't do this," Auriel's voice faltered, "it's a curse, not you, sister, please."

But the girl only looked at the mirror side of the coin, when suddenly her eyes widened. The surface that had reflected nothing moments ago now showed her the image of a woman, old with black hair mixed with gray, whose gaze was like an abyss.

"Sister, we shouldn't bear this alone," Auriel's voice was fading, "without others... it's only a curse."

"You made your choice," Sumarel approached close, raising the dagger, "my turn, in solitude and torment—I'll succeed where you failed."

The light around the crucified girl began to dim, as if broken by shadows that finally filled the space. Only Auriel's face still glowed from within—the last source the darkness couldn't fully embrace.

"Look at yourself," said Auriel in that same angelic voice, straining at the end.

And in that instant Sumarel saw her reflection in her sister's face, as if looking into a dark mirror. Delicate features, almond-shaped eyes of a strange turquoise color turned to mirror surface, a scar on the left eyelid. But this face was devoid of emotion—empty, detached, with eyes deep as a bottomless pool.

Shock pierced her through.

But under the gaze of her own reflection, the mask trembled, crumbling to dust. And a tear ran down her left cheek.

The reflection, as if coming alive, spoke. The voice was hoarse, metallic, like the scrape of rusty hinges:

"Die."

Sumarel's hand jerked. Led by another's will, she directed the blade toward her own throat. Her muscles wouldn't obey, moving on their own.

The reflection shifted its gaze to the side, into emptiness, and pronounced, as if proclaiming an immutable law:

"What is predetermined cannot be reversed, my student."

The reflected face's lips stretched into a smile—inhuman.

But Sumarel couldn’t hear anything anymore. Her trembling hands forcefully drew the blade across her throat. The same dagger that killed her mother. The blade entered deep, meeting no resistance.

The body collapsed like a puppet with severed strings. And her gaze froze in surprise, looking at the coin splattered with her own blood.