Unrepentant

Poliana's face twisted in shock as she took in the grisly scene before her. The criminal lay on the floor convulsing, his body trembling uncontrollably, spit and muttered nonsense spilling from his mouth.

His right hand had been flayed, the raw flesh exposed to the dank air of the prison, and the left side of his face was more bruised flesh than healthy skin, swollen and torn with jagged teeth protruding from his cheek. The stench of blood, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of urine hung heavy in the room, making her stomach churn slightly.

Silas stood beside the broken man, his blood-soaked sleeve dripping, his eyes calm. He spoke first, his voice a low rasp. "The noble Town Lord has arrived," he said, addressing Poliana without turning. His lips curled in amusement as he glanced at the quivering body on the floor. "Repeat to her what you just told me, my heretical friend."

The man—once a proud Inquisitor, now reduced to a muttering wreck—shuddered, his breaths shallow and uneven. His voice wavered with fear, but he spoke as commanded, choking out the words. "I am Ambri De Lumas! Servant... and Priest of the Everlight Aiel! I was called forth by the Flock... to gather funding for the Great Return!"

Poliana blinked, her moment of shock giving way to an icy calm. She stepped closer, her boots making soft thuds on the damp stone floor. "What is this Aiel? What Flock, and what in Rovinius's name is the Great Return?" Her voice was sharp, demanding clarity as her gaze bore into Ambri, who trembled before her.

The mention of his God sparked a faint flicker of energy in Ambri’s eyes. He stammered with renewed fervor. "The Everlight... is the final gift of the Almighty, cast down from his rightful place by his treasonous children."

Before Ambri could speak further, Silas cut him off, his voice cold, dismissive. "Some sort of heretical deity, imagined to be a precursor of the Twelve Gods... not quite the interesting twist I was hoping for, wouldn’t you say?" He sounded bored, the cruel edge in his words barely masked.

Poliana raised an eyebrow, her tone laced with disbelief. "You hoped for something more interesting?" She studied Silas, wondering how a man could be so nonchalant about what was clearly a well-established Heresy—one powerful enough that its followers could steal the power of true Faith and use it to perform miracles.

Silas shrugged, the motion causing his blood-soaked sleeve to squelch with a wet, nauseating sound. "It’s not the first time," he replied, as if they were discussing an academic theory rather than a man proclaiming the existence of a new God granting cultivators power. "Perhaps a Crusade shall be called?"

Poliana's eye twitched at the thought. "If it comes to that, I doubt the Churches will find many volunteers." Her voice was low, strained.

Silas smiled thinly. "I’m sure there will be enough." He turned back to the broken man. "Now, Ambri, would you kindly explain your Flock and this ‘Great Return’ to the Town Lord."

Ambri groaned, squeezing out a whisper, "We who know the Everlight are the Flock. The Great Return... is when the central countries fall in blood and fire... to mark the return of Aiel."

Poliana inhaled deeply, but immediately regretted it, the acrid stench of blood and bodily fluids filling her lungs. She suppressed a cough and asked, her voice cold and measured, "Why attack Rhysling’s auction specifically? How did you manage to get to Sichal so quickly after?"

Ambri wheezed, his body shaking with every breath. "An opulence of wealth... was to be a gift to The Everlight... I..." He hesitated, his eyes darting wildly as if searching for a way out. "I... I was never there."

Poliana’s eyes narrowed, her stare cold enough to freeze the very air. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, and a thin layer of frost began creeping along the stone floor. "Explain," she demanded, her voice icy.

Ambri’s eyes rolled back into his head as his body slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Silas regarded the unconscious form with a casual glance. "Hmm, perhaps I overestimated the lad’s tolerance," he spoke softly, taking a step toward Ambri.

"One moment, Town Lord." Without hesitation, Silas placed a boot on Ambri’s chest and extended his hand. A bead of clear liquid, like water, formed on the tip of his finger, hanging for a moment before it dripped onto Ambri’s exposed skin.

The second the liquid made contact, a horrific sizzling sound filled the air, the scent of burning flesh quickly overpowering the already foul atmosphere. Ambri’s eyes shot open, and he let out a blood-curdling scream, his entire body convulsing as he shouted. "[Mind Displacement]!"

The guard who had accepted Poliana's earlier bribe to play dumb. stood trembling at the entrance of the prison, his face pale as another agonized scream tore through the chamber.

Silas withdrew his hand, stepping back as Ambri’s sobs echoed off the cold walls. He turned to Poliana, his tone light. "Now, where were we?"

Outside the theatre, the sun hung high in the sky, casting a sharp light over the streets of Sichal. People moved in waves, some stopping to admire the grand building while others drifted toward the market stalls, the noise of the city filling the air with a steady hum.

Standing just outside the theatre’s entrance, Gabri, the taller and broader of two brothers, turned to his younger sibling, Imael, his expression dark.

“They attacked mother,” Gabri growled, his voice low and tight with anger. His fists clenched by his sides, knuckles white. “That needs to be repaid in blood.”

Imael, leaning casually against the wall of the theatre, crossed his arms. He was more slender, quicker to smile, but there was a sharpness in his eyes. “Mother told us those bastards are already dead,” he replied, his voice calm but with a subtle edge. “What more do you want?”

Gabri’s scowl deepened, his jaw tight. “That doesn’t matter. No one’s dared to touch her in years—not with us around. Now two fools who thought they could defile her are dead. But that doesn’t mean a message has been sent to anyone else thinking like them. People have forgotten who and what we are—why they should fear us.”

Imael sighed, though there was a glint of understanding in his eyes. He straightened up, uncrossing his arms as he met Gabri’s gaze. “So, we remind them?” he said, his tone resigned. “Fine. But what about Nyx and this ‘Honorable Master Ji’? You think we can trust them?”

Gabri spat onto the cobblestones, the disdain clear in his gesture. “This Nyx helped her, sure, but the Spirit Beast outright said he was planning to rob her and only helped because he found her struggle charming.” Gabri rubbed his temples in frustration. “He claims he’ll convince his master to meet with her. Could be a potential friend, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Imael shrugged. “A Spirit Beast with sticky fingers and its master who might show up for a chat? Doesn’t exactly scream reliable to me.” He glanced toward the theatre, where performers and crew moved in and out of the side doors, their faces flushed from rehearsal. “But speaking of plans, I’ve got one.”

He turned to Gabri, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “What if we get some of the Orchid’s pretty aspirants to ‘accidentally’ wander into the slums? We swoop in, chop up some of the riffraff, save them from whatever trouble they find themselves in, and suddenly, the city’s reminded why Miranda and her sons are not to be messed with.”

Gabri’s eyes narrowed, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Not a bad idea. Gives us something to work with.” He tilted his head, thinking it over. “But we’ll need the Director’s blessing first. I’m not interested in waking up with my body twisted inside out because we crossed him.”

Imael snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather stay on the Director’s good side. The man has a way of dealing with problems that leaves... permanent reminders.”

The two brothers fell silent for a moment, the noise of the midday crowd swelling around them. The sun beat down, warm on their skin, but their thoughts were cold, calculating.

They surveyed the street, eyes scanning the faces that passed by, minds already piecing together the next steps. A show in the slums—something bloody, something loud—was just what they needed to remind Sichal that their little family still had the power of two cultivators. That no one touched Miranda without paying the price.

They exchanged a look, the unspoken understanding between brothers clear. They had always worked in tandem, each knowing their roles without needing to discuss them. Gabri, the enforcer, would handle the brute force. Imael, with his cunning and charm, would handle the finer details.

“Let’s make sure it’s a show worth dying for,” Imael said, nodding toward the theatre with a chuckle.

Gabri smirked, the earlier tension easing slightly. “Oh, it will be.”

Silas and Poliana stepped out of the cell, the heavy door closing with a loud clank behind them. The damp, cold air of the prison gave way to the slightly warmer corridors, though the tension between them remained high. Poliana walked ahead, her face drawn—the weight of the interrogation still hanging over her.

"Senior Ji, you keep surprising me," she muttered as they walked, her gaze fixed ahead. "I didn’t expect Rhysling’s Savior to be so... efficient."

Silas tilted his head, a faint, almost amused smile playing on his lips. "On the contrary," he replied, his tone light. "I would expect exactly that: a strong moral compass, but one that doesn’t make him soft toward the unjust."

Poliana's eye twitched slightly at the remark, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Perhaps," she said, her voice tight, but her thoughts lingered on what she'd just witnessed. She didn’t like surprises, especially not from men like Silas. "But [Mind Displacement]... I didn’t think they could access those abilities."

Silas’s expression darkened, his voice losing its casual edge. "Since you recognize it, do not probe me for confirmation." He met her gaze squarely. "I’m fully aware of what Revenant Paladins are capable of. I’ve seen it firsthand—back in Rhysling, not so long ago, as I'm sure you are aware."

Poliana rolled her shoulders, letting out a small, half-hearted cough. "No offense meant, Senior Ji. I made assumptions. Curiosity, that’s all." Her words were measured, though it was clear the conversation made her uncomfortable.

Silas's tone became more clinical as he explained further. "[Mind Displacement] allows them to transfer someone else’s consciousness into a different body. The transplanted consciousness takes control of the host, reshaping its features to resemble the original body until the host is killed or the Paladin who cast it dispels it. Once either happens, the consciousness snaps back to the original… It's a particularly cruel ability, often used to make its target experience the full pain of death within the host body without truly killing them."

Poliana grimaced, rubbing her temples as the implications hit her. "Which means there’s at least one accomplice still out there, and they may already be long gone from Sichal. Worse," she added bitterly, "we have no idea where the stolen items went." She cast a sidelong glance at Silas, thinking, ''And it means I’m stuck with you longer than I’d like. Hmm~ you better keep your nosiness in check.''

Silas nodded, a grim look crossing his face. "The corpse that was possessed was likely among the dead at the Church of Rovinius or the Starlight Bidders' Hall. When the 'Priest' left Arim to die, they must’ve dispelled the ability. The body would have reverted to its original form, hiding any evidence of the possession."

Poliana groaned softly, rubbing her eyes. "We’ve been duped," she muttered under her breath, the frustration clear. "I’ll contact Lachlan, have him dig through the body count and see if anything doesn’t line up."

Silas folded his arms. "He should also interrogate anyone who handled the bodies. The Bag of Holding with the auction's loot is missing, and I’d wager another Heretic—disguised as a mortician, perhaps—swiped it. Someone who knew exactly what to take."

Poliana gave a curt nod, her expression hardening as they reached the heavy wooden door leading out of the prison. The sunlight filtering through the cracks felt like a distant warm memory compared to the darkness of the prison. She placed her hand on the door handle, muttering, "Heretical Priests and Paladins... fucking hell."

Silas allowed himself a soft, dry chuckle. "Indeed," he replied quietly, his mind already turning to other matters. ''Sufficiently convoluted,'' he thought, ''enough to keep them chasing empty plots for some time.''

Silas then said, "Town Lord, I must ask you a question. There is something I have noticed out of place in Sichal."

Poliana stopped midway through opening the door as her mind screamed one word: ''Shit.''