The Court of the Church
The grand chamber of judgment was vast and silent, its high-arched ceiling swallowed in shadow. Massive pillars lined the sides, each carved with murals of angels and demons locked in eternal struggle. The air was thick with incense and the low hum of prayer chants echoing faintly from distant halls.
At the far end, upon a raised dais, sat the priests and bishops of the Church of Light. Their seats carved from marble and gold, high above the ground so that any who stood before them would have to look upward, as though pleading before the heavens themselves.
Below, two hooded figures knelt. Their black robes bore the sigil of the Executioners, the Church's silent enforcers.
A voice boomed from above. "You were sent to retrieve the Forge of Creation, were you not?" It was a bishop with sharp, sunken eyes and a voice like cold ice.
"Yet you return empty-handed." He added, his voice portraying disgust.
The leader of the hooded figures bowed lower. "Forgive us, Your Grace. We tracked the slavers to the borderlands, but the artifact was not among them." He plead.
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Another bishop leaned forward, his ornate cross gleaming in the torchlight. "Not among them? The Oracle himself foresaw its presence there. Are you calling the holy Oracle a liar?" He questioned with authority.
The second hooded figure quickly lowered his head further. "Never, my lord! We dare not question the Oracle's sight. The artifact… it eludes us. But we believe it is near, hidden, perhaps, among other caravans still moving through the borderlands. Our men remain stationed there, should more slaver traders arrive."
The bishops exchanged disapproving looks. One slammed his staff against the marble. "Excuses. Your failure has shamed this order. And worse, you dared bring slaves into the sanctum of the Church. Such defilement is forbidden!"
He turned sharply to the guards stationed along the walls. "Execute every last one of those slave traders. At once."
The younger hooded figure's head snapped up. "Wait! Please, your eminence, some of the slaves were but children. They were forced into chains, not born to them. Spare them, at least!"
"Silence!" The bishop roared. "You dare speak against the will of the Church? They are tainted, each and every one!"
"But my lord…" They were about to press up before they were suddenly interrupted by the creaking sound of a door as they turn over to see the massive door of the court room sliding open.
A light bloomed from the great doors at the rear of the hall.
The heavy air shifted as they swung open, and from beyond came a presence that made even the bishops fall silent. A figure drifted inward, his robes pure white and his steps never touching the floor. A halo of radiant starlight hovered behind his head, turning slowly like the hands of a celestial clock.
"The Oracle…" Someone whispered.
Instantly, every priest and bishop bowed low. The two hooded figures dropped to one knee, their heads bowed deeply as the Oracle glided past them. His mere passing seemed to calm the air, snuffing out the tension like a dying flame.
He reached the central throne and turned, facing them all as he raised one hand in benediction. His voice, when it came, was soft—but it carried through every corner of the vast hall.
"Raise your heads." He motioned.
The bishops obeyed, eyes averted from his gaze. The hooded figures stood as ordered, their breaths shallow beneath their masks.
The Oracle's eyes, glowing faintly like molten gold, swept across the chamber. "The younger one speaks true," he said at last, his gaze falling on the pleading executioner. "Among those slaves is one who bears the Mark of the Forge."
A collective gasp swept the room.
"Therefore," the Oracle continued, "they shall not be executed. The Church will keep them… and train them." His gaze hardened slightly. "The Church will need more executioners. The slaves shall be divided into groups—each guided by a Black Robe as their overseer and mentor. Their purpose will be tested. Their faith will be forged."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"After all." He said, pausing for a bit before continuing his statement.
"You have not forgotten the prophecy… have you?"
No one dared to answer.
Meanwhile…
I soon awoken to an unfamiliar setting, where I lay on a narrow bed surrounded by cold gray stone walls and a single barred window.
I sat up as the wave of dizziness washed over me, running my hand through my hair trying to shake off the haze. Just then the door creaked open and a tall slender figure entered, he wore a black tailcoat, a crisp, white dress with a high, stiff collar, a black waistcoat, bow tie, trouser and shoe. His dress code gave the impression he was indeed a butler.
"Oh, I see you're awake." He said, his voice detached.
"You must be the new servant the master brought in today?" He said in a light tone.
"Where am I?" I asked, my memories still foggy.
The butler expression remained neutral.
"You are in the manor of the church of light. I am Finch, the butler and you on the other hand are expected to begin your training and duties soon." He replied.
At that moment it all came back to me. Without hesitation I jumped out of bed pushing aside the butler as I ran off following the hallway that led to a massive foyer suiting for a noble. But before I could take another step…
"Ah!" I screamed out aloud, falling to the ground from an intense pain and clutching my chest as I begin to cough out blood.
This pain, it's the same as the one from the binding curse only it's more intense. I thought the curse is lifted the moment the slave traders were killed, so why? I thought to myself graveling in pain as I tried to figure out what was going on.
"I wondered what that racket was all about? But I guess It's just the new rats trying to escape." One of the cloaked figure replied walking in on the scene. It wasn't just any of the cloaked figure it was their leader.
"Forgot about the binding curse now, did we?" He added with a stern expression, casting down his hood to reveal his face and then his glove to reveal a crest.
"Wait, that crest, it can't be? Why does he have the slave command crest? I thought to myself.
I thought only the slave traders could own it. So why does he have it? Could it be it was transferred from the slave traders to him while they were killed or was another placed on me while I was out cold? If that's the case…" I couldn't help but ponder to myself admitting the difficulty of the situation.
"Let me highlight you brat, as much as I hate this, you are now my students and I am your mentor and master as shown by this crest, I could have you commit suicide whenever I please so for your safety I advise you don't let this repeat itself again." He said with a cold tone and serious facial expression before walking away.