The academy reeked of sweat, cheap ink, and the cloying sweetness of censer smoke, a futile attempt to mask the stench of rotting dreams. Sunlight strained through stained glass windows depicting martyrs torn apart by shadowy figures a warning masquerading as art.
Abdellah's desk bore the scars of past defiance
generations of students had carved their silent rebellions into the wood. The newest addition, a crude demon horn etched near his elbow, glared at him like an omen. Before him lay the exam parchment, its edges crisp, its center adorned with the Church's golden sun sigil, its sharp rays forming a gilded cage around the question:
If Christianity is the true religion, why does God allow its enemies to thrive?
Quills scratched across parchment, obedient lies flowing like inked confessions. The steam-powered crucifix above the door exhaled a serpentine hiss as its mechanized eyes swept the room, ever watchful for heresy.
Abdellah thought of Zone 6 the stench of unwashed bodies, the sight of children clawing for moldy bread while priests rode past in coal-fueled carriages, robes lined with gold. He thought of his father's calloused hands, the rusted Suncoin resting in his palm after twelve hours in the scripture mills.
His quill trembled for only a moment. Then he wrote:
Because belief is a weapon. And those in power decide where it cuts.
The boot struck his desk with a violence that rattled his ribs.
Professor Othman loomed, his uniform stiff with starch and self-importance, the relic pinned to his lapel a demon's fang set in gold glinting like a warning.
You think you're clever? His slap cracked like a gunshot. Abdellah's head snapped to the side, the taste of iron pooling in his mouth. You're a disgrace to this academy and the Holy Republic.
Laughter rippled through the room.
Arabi, ever the opportunist, exhaled smoke from his contraband cigarette, the ember casting shadows across his smirk. Rahma twirled a lock of hair around her gloved fingers, silk whispering against wood her Zone 1 privilege wrapped around her like a shield.
Only Salah kept his head bowed, his soldier's posture carved from stone. And Melissa
MELISSA
She found him in the scriptorium, where the air throbbed with the ceaseless hum of printing presses, each stamp birthing another page of sanctioned lies.
You've got a death wish, she murmured, leaning against a tower of banned books marked for incineration. The gaslights cast sharp shadows across her face, highlighting the defiance in the curve of her jaw.
The silver cross around her neck too ornate for a student, its edges sharpened to fine points swayed between her collarbones. A weapon disguised as faith.
Abdellah met her gaze. You don't believe the Church's lies either.
Melissa plucked a communion wafer from her pocket, held it up as if inspecting it, then pressed it between her teeth. The stamped sun sigil crumbled against her tongue.
I believe in what keeps me alive. She smiled then, sharp and knowing. You should try it.
The scent of night blooming jasmine clung to her skin, a fragrance that had no place here. Forbidden. Intoxicating.
As she turned to leave, the printing press beside them shuddered, spitting out a fresh leaflet:
DEMON SIGHTING IN ZONE 4 REPORT ALL SUSPICIOUS SHADOWS.
THE SHADOW'S WHISPER
That night, Abdellah lay on his pallet, staring at the cracked ceiling while the distant chants of the Night Vigil slithered through the thin walls. His ration card, folded in his pocket, would barely buy half a loaf tomorrow. His father's snores rattled through the apartment, broken only by the occasional scream from the streets another soul caught out past curfew.
The candle on his bedside flickered. His shadow stretched against the wall, but the edges wavered.
Hungry?
The voice seeped from the darkness, thick as poisoned honey.
Abdellah's breath caught. The Church said demons couldn't speak in human tongues. But then again, the Church said a lot of things.
Why beg for scraps, the shadow murmured, when you could take the whole feast?
A steam crucifix trundled past outside, its searchlight slicing through the night. For a fraction of a second, his shadow did not move with him.
Then the light was gone, and the whisper came again:
Let me show you how.