He saw an open palm descend on him and Luric closed his eyes again, but all he felt was the stranger’s fingers close around the front of shirt, grabbing a handful, and then hoist him up on his feet. From the corner of his eyes he caught Baliger’s form crumbled on the ground, staring bewilderingly up at them.

“Can you walk?” the man asked.

Luric didn’t know; he couldn’t test the strength in his own legs because the stranger was still holding him up by the shirt, so high that his toes were barely touching the ground. Even slightly bent as he was now, the man still looked about twice Luric’s size, and Luric wasn’t short for his age. All he could do was stare at him, too afraid to move.

The man’s frown deepened as he then lowered his head to have a better look at Luric’s face. He groaned at the sight of the gag, and with one fast, sudden movement ripped it off. But Luric still couldn’t talk; the cloth had been lodged so tightly and so far down his throat he wouldn’t be able to get it out without the use of his hands. The stranger looked at him again, sneered, and shoved his fingers in Luric’s mouth to take out the material. As he felt it slide out he heard Piltrim’s panicked words. “Sir! You sh-shouldn’t!”

“Shouldn’t what?” came the gruff response. The man held the cloth between his thumb and forefinger, and looked at it in disgust. “What is this?”

A second of confused silence and then Piltrim spoke again “Priest Santr said it was to keep‘im from turning.”

“And how in the fuck is a scrap of cloth supposed to do that?”

“It had holy water, Sir.”

The man shook his head and casually threw the piece of cloth at Piltrim, who recoiled as if burned.

“Backwater morons,” he heard the man grumble. And then all his attention was back on Luric. “Can you talk, boy?”

Luric had been coughing and massaging his sore jaw, not sure if he could still feel and move his tongue, so all he could manage at that moment for an answer was “Ah-uh…”

The stranger just shrugged. “Good enough.” And then grabbed him by the scruff roughlyand started pushing him.

Luric was so dizzy he couldn’t tell which direction they were heading. Did the man plan on throwing him back in the cellar? Everything was going by in a dark blur, and if it hadn’t been for the hold on his neck he probably would’ve tumbled over. Hurried steps along the hallway, up a short flight of stairs quickly, a shove, and then daylight hit him in the face.

After two days of darkness, even the gentle late afternoon sunlight illuminating the nave of the prayhouse was enough to hurt Luric’s eyes, and he needed a few seconds to clear his sight.

The first thing he noticed after he blinked the tears away was that the house was full of people, and everyone was staring at him. The second thing the noticed was that the crowd was very distinctly split into two groups. On the right side, standing almost in a huddle towards the center of the prayhouse and gaping horrified at him were the townsfolk. On the left, closer to the entrance, were several other strange men, all dressed with the same black cloak the man behind was wearing. The third thing he noticed was…..

Blue.

A brilliant, bright blue, such as he had never seen before in all his life. Not on the petals of field flowers, not on expensive paintings in the merchants’ houses. He was so taken aback by the intensity of the color that at first, he didn’t even realize what it was that he was looking at. Or who he was looking at.

The color belonged to a long mantle that was hanging off of the shoulders of a tall, slim figure. On top of those shoulders glimmered a crown of golden locks brought up in a fancy-looking bun like he’d seen in pictures of city ladies. Girls around here sometimes tried to imitate the style, but to him they always looked as if they were wearing nesting hens on their heads. Nothing like the neat, dignified twirl of clean, glistening tresses he was seeing now. The woman had her back to them, and she seemed to be studying the chipped-off murals on the wall in front of her.

The man behind him spoke. “I brought him, my lady.”

The woman - no, lady - finally turned. She wasn’t young - well past marrying age - but she was still the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Two long ringlets of hair were flowing down her temple and brushing against pale, defined cheekbones. Her features were sharp, but there was a delicateness to them that somehow made her seem both dainty as well as imposing. She had a long, straight nose, and her brow was decorated with thin, arched eyebrows. Her chin was pointy and slightly protruding forward, and her lips were a peach colored line that was barely visible on her otherwise ghostly white skin. But her eyes were large and round, soft with kindness and understanding when she looked at him.

That, most of all, shook Luric to the very core, and for some reason, felt the need to latch onto her like a lifeline. But he didn’t know her. He didn’t know any of these people. The only people he knew were the ones on the right side of the room, and they all wanted him dead. Who were they? What was going on?

The woman tooks a few steps towards him, but stopped when Chief Slatrim’s voice blared through the room.

“Careful, m’lady! We roughed’im up well, but he may still be dangerous.” He extracted himself from the group of cowering people reluctantly, but mindful not to get too close to either the lady or Luric.

Without taking her eyes of him, the lady answered the magistrate. “Yes, I can see you did quite a number on this poor boy.”

“This ain’t no poor boy, m’lady. It’s the demon child we told you about. Shulffa’s fuckin’ spawn, right here in our town. Pardon my language.”

She did turn to look at him at that. Not just at Chief Slatrim, but at all of them. And then she turned back to Luric for a brief second, before raising her eyes to address the man standing behind him in a stern, commanding voice. “Take off the shackles.”

Shocked murmurs broke out among the townsfolk, men, women and children shifting frantically and looking at each other in worry. Chief spoke again.

“I-is that wise, my lady?”

“Fear not. These gentlemen I have with me are the most experienced warriors when it comes to dealing with a Blighted.”

“Blighted?”

She turned back to the magistrate, and smiled at him. Coldly. Luric couldn’t help but feel that she was subtlety mocking him.

“It’s what people like him are called in our profession.”

“But - I don’t understand. He ain’t people. That’s a monster.”

The lady just stared at him quietly until Chief Slatrim started to look uncomfortable and averted his gaze, as if he was ashamed of something.

Slatrim had been town magistrate since long before Luric had been born. A single-minded and inflexible old man that held the entire town in his firm grip. He was unusually short and skinny for a north-born, with ashen skin that reminded Luric of dried up tree bark, thin grey-white hair, and small, beady eyes that were only really visible underneath those heavy wrinkled eyelids when they lit up in anger. To Luric, he had always looked ill and weak, but what he may have lacked in physical capability he more than made up for in fierceness and fortitude. Luric had seen hunters and wood men that could have picked him up with one hand cower before this stern gaze and admonition.

There weren’t many people in Runrick that would stand up to him, and only Priest Santr and the head-merchant Olvic had the power to sway his mind. Like when Slatrim wanted to close down their school because he saw no reason for Runrick's children to waste their time on being taught things they’d have no real use for, like reading and studying numbers, instead of helping their own parents around the household and learning the family trade. Mr. Carshtin had vehemently opposed him, but it had been Priest Santr’s argument that everyone should have the privilege to read Baar’s book whenever they wished, and Olvic’s reasoning that it would help with collecting taxes correctly, that ultimately settled the matter. But he had never forgiven the teacher for his public opposition, and the consequences of getting on the magistrate’s bad side had been dire. There was no doubt in his mind that Chief Slatrim had a hand in Mr. Carshtin’s death.

But the person Chief Slatrim was facing now wasn’t someone he could intimidate, and it was obvious he wasn’t used to dealing with people that were above his station and demanded humility from him. The lady was clearly a noble. Everything about her, from her fine clothes, to her poise, to her mannerism spoke of the power and wealth of the midland and southern provinces, possibly even the capital, and that alone was enough to make any small town lowborn bow their head. The group of armed men hovering protectively around her probably helped too.

It was obvious to everyone in the room that she was the one in charge here.

But Slatrim was nothing if not persistent, and he wouldn’t back down so easily.