As we walked through the Veil district, the dirt roads were cloaked with an unusual stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath. There were no Mongrels walking about today, and the air seemed thick with unease. Anxiety gnawed at us, settling deep in our bones.

I glanced at Cyrus and Serf Seraphiel, their expressions mirroring my own confusion.

Where is everyone?

Serf Seraphiel quickened his pace, his eyes sharply scanning our surroundings with utmost caution. We had all been quieter than usual since we left No Man’s Land, our thoughts weighing heavy with the burden of what transpired with the Remnants. He didn’t need to remind us of the danger– if any King’s Guards caught wind of our intentions, the consequences would be severe.

Our steps grew more deliberate as we neared Josiah’s home, every sound or movement scrutinized with a paranoia that bordered desperation. When we knocked, the silence that greeted us was unsettling.

“Josiah,” Serf Seraphiel called out, his voice low but urgent. “Josiah, I’m coming in.”

Dust stirred as he pushed open the door, particles of it dancing in the dim light. The room was cold, a dirty blouse stained with blood lying discarded on the floor. Suddenly, a faint grunt echoed from down the hall and we rushed towards the sound. 

Our friend was slumped in the bathtub, the water tainted red, and his trousers still clinging to his legs. The sight of him brought a tight knot into my chest.

“My goodness,” Serf Seraphiel breathed out, his face paling. “What’s happened?”

Josiah sat up roughly, wincing as the struggling movement aggravated the raw, angry welts on his back. His skin was pallid, and his wet hair clung to his forehead. “T-the King's Guards… enforcing new p-punishments,” he rasped.

The words hit me like a blow. No wonder the entire Veil District had retreated into their homes. Fear had driven them into hiding.

“Which one did this to you?” I whispered, my blood boiling. 

“Gorvyn,” Josiah replied, grimacing as he shifted. “Twenty-five lashings– It’s a new punishment that King Varek blessed off on for use of our magic and such.”

“You used magic?” Serf Seraphiel asked.

“No,” Josiah muttered. “I stole s-some bread from the King’s district while I w-was working there. My wages have been short– I needed to feed my family.”

“Where are your wife and daughter now?” I asked, a growing unease gnawing at me. The house was unnervingly quiet.

“They’re being questioned.”

A heavy silence fell over us, the weight of those words settling heavily. We all understood the implications. My heart clenched at the thought of his family enduring the cruel interrogations.

Guilt must be eating him alive right now.

“Why is the Captain of the King’s Guard enforcing the punishments himself?” Cyrus asked, his tone full of disbelief. “Shouldn’t he be delegating that to his subordinates?”

“He wanted to do it himself,” Josiah said with a hollow smile. “That bastard is a true sadist.”

Cyrus grabbed a towel, his movements brisk and efficient as he approached our friend. He started to wipe the blood off his back, but Josiah let out a sharp intake of breath from the pain.

“Alright, fuck this,” Cy said angrily. “I’m going to heal you.”

Josiah jerked forward, turning his head around to meet Cyrus’s eyes with a desperate intensity. “Don’t. The guard’s will notice that I’ve been healed and it’ll only bring more trouble for whoever helped me.”

“I don’t care.” Cyrus shot back, his tone unyielding. “I don’t feel pain the way others do.”

Serf Seraphiel sighed and walked over to his son, putting a hand on his shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you don’t feel pain at all, Cyrus.” There was a note of resignation in his voice. “However, I won’t stop you. This is your decision, as a man.”

I saw Cyrus straighten his shoulders at his father’s words, his body language indicating a sense of pride. He gently placed his hands against our friend’s back and his magic began to flow.

I thought of all of the times Cyrus had healed me and each time felt like a miracle. His hands, though strong, were deceptively gentle. As they glowed with healing magic, a wave of serene warmth washed over the wounds, erasing the pain as if it never existed. His power was as beautiful as it was rare, and I could never stop myself from admiring it.

Cyrus had noticed that I was staring. Our eyes met, blue orbs catching mine framed by long, blonde lashes. Our eyes connecting felt strangely electric, like his gaze was pulling me in. It made my heart skip a beat, and I quickly looked away.

What was that just now?

Serf Seraphiel’s voice broke the silence, mentioning what we originally came here for. “Josiah, I have to talk to you about something.” he said with all seriousness.

Josiah, visibly better now that Cyrus had begun healing him, nodded, signaling Serf Seraphiel to continue.

Cyrus’s father took a slow, measured breath, his voice dropping to a whisper, “As you well know, the punishments by King Varek are only becoming worse for us… this is no way for Mongrels to live– Angels and Demons alike. I am asking for your help- as a friend- there is talk of a possible uprising.”

Josiah’s eyes grew wide, fear replacing the pain, “Alden, you know the dangers of even mentioning something like that! You could be killed just for thinking it.”

“We can’t continue to cower to them, Josiah, you know that. Look what they’ve done to you, over a loaf of bread.”

Josiah’s expression darkened, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the decision before him. “If you are asking for my help in assisting, Alden, I don’t know that I should. I have a family to worry about: a daughter and a wife. I can’t risk their lives any more.”

Serf Seraphiel nodded in understanding, resting his hand on Josiah’s shoulder, “All I ask is that you think about it, my friend.”

After a moment of silence, Cyrus stood up. “Alright Serf Stone, you’re all better now,” he said softly. 

“Like hell he is.”

The voice cut through the air like a knife. We turned, and the presence before us stopped us in our tracks.

“Gorvyn.” Josiah gasped, fear creeping back into his voice. 

Damn it. We forgot to close the door.

“What do we have here?” Gorvyn asked, his eyes cold and predatory as he walked into the room. His gaze landed on me, and his smirk turned into a sneer. “Wipe that scowl off your bitch face, or I will do it for you, Mongrel.”

My fists clenched, his comment only making me scowl deeper. “Don’t forget, you’re one of us too Gorvyn,” I spat his name like poison on my tongue. In that moment, I didn’t care about the consequences, I just wanted a small taste of victory.

The back of his hand met my face with a sharp crack, the sting radiating through my cheek.
“That’s Captain Gorvyn to you!” he barked. “And I’m not ‘one of you’, I’m better than you. I’ve been chosen by the King.” He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back to meet his eyes. His breath was hot and foul against my face. “Besides, a pretty girl like you– you would look better if you smiled more,” he spat. I let out a small whimper at the pain, scraping at his hands with my own and trying to peel them away.

“Let go of her!” Cyrus shouted, his voice trembling with rage.

Gorvyn slowly turned his head to look at Cyrus. “Oh, I almost forgot about you, boy,” he said in disgust. “The fuck are you gonna do anyway with your stupid healing magic?” He released me with a shove, sending me sprawling to the floor. I weakly pushed myself up as he stalked towards Cyrus.

“Which reminds me, by the way, your magic is quite the spectacle,” Gorvyn sneered. “Bright enough to see through the window. It would have behooved you to close the blinds.”

Serf Seraphiel stepped forward, his voice desperate. “Please, Captain Gorvyn, I was the one who forced him to use his magic–”

“No, he didn’t,” Cy interrupted, standing tall. His height was already slightly above the Captains, their eyes looking straight into each other. “I chose to do it on my own.” 

Gorvyn’s eyes narrowed. “Good. Then you can get punished on your own, too. In fact, since you undid the damage I caused your friend here, you get double the lashings.” He smirked, an ugly, twisted smile. “Cause you can’t heal yourself, right? That’s the disadvantage to your pathetic ability.”

Panic surged through me as I met Serf Seraphiel’s eyes. He slowly shook his head at me, his silent plea telling me not to do anything to escalate the situation.

Suddenly, Gorvyn activated the brand on Cyrus, causing his body to immediately fall to the ground. Cyrus was able to slightly crawl when the brand was used against him, but he was still incapable of defending himself as Gorvyn grabbed him by his collar and drug him outside.

The rest of us followed in horror, running after him. Josiah’s pants were still sopping wet and he didn’t bother to put his shirt back on.

“EVERYBODY OUT OF THEIR HOMES NOW!” Gorvyn’s voice thundered through the district. 

Doors flew open, and Mongrels quickly filled the square. As they saw Cyrus’s body being drug through the dirt and gravel, they immediately knew what was about to happen.

“Not again,” an older woman cried, her voice trembling with sorrow.

The square was different now, a wooden platform dominating its center, ropes coiled around a post atop it.

Shit. What should I do?

“You could let me help you.” 

Shut up, you stupid fucking demon!

I watched as Gorvyn tied Cyrus to the post, yanking the ropes tight before pulling a whip from his coat. The whip dangled menacingly from his hand, its leather tip brushing the ground as he addressed the crowd.

“This young Mongrel thought he could defy the King’s will by undoing the punishment I rightfully inflicted. So now, he will face double the lashings!” 

The crowd was silent, the tension thick enough to cut. All eyes were on Cyrus, whose chest was heaving as he struggled to catch his breath after being released from the magic of the brand. His blue eyes met mine for a moment and I saw his resolve, mixed with a pain he wouldn’t allow to break him.

“Your crimes,” Gorvyn continued, “include aiding that thief and using forbidden magic. Do you disagree?”

Cyrus lifted his head with a quiet defiance that sent a shiver through me. “The only crime here is your lie– calling Josiah a thief. Your kind are the ones stealing from our people.”

Gorvyn’s face twisted into a snarl. “What the fuck am I stealing from you? You have nothing of value to me.”

Cyrus met his eyes, glaring, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Our lives and our freedom,” he growled.

Gorvyn’s eyes flashed with fury as he raised the whip high. “Your punishment is fifty lashes.”

Cyrus looked forward again, determination on his face. “Then, go ahead. Do your ‘duty’.”

My eyes met his as I ran up. I had to save him from this. I couldn’t sit back and watch as he was beaten into submission.

But, I stopped in my tracks.

Cyrus's eyes stared at mine with sadness and determination, and he shook his head slowly, telling me not to intervene. The realization hit me like a meteor strike. I wanted to intervene, to shield him from the cruelty being inflicted, but his gaze held me back. I knew what he was doing.

I took a retreating step, my body weak with defeat. I watched, every muscle in my body tensed, as the first lash struck Cyrus’s back. His body jolted with the impact, but he remained silent, teeth gritting against the pain. The crowd flinched with every crack of the whip, yet no one moved to stop it.

“You’re insane, you know that?” I whispered sadly, knowing he couldn’t hear.

The lashes continued, each one ripping through his flesh and tearing at the seams of his shirt– and my composure. Serf Seraphiel and I let out a whimper with every blow, and I could see the tears pooling in his eyes from watching the pain inflicted on his son. Blood was staining the wood beneath Cyrus, a grim reminder of the cost of defiance. Still, Cyrus refused to cry out. His silence was louder to the crowd than any scream.

Whispers of unrest rippled through the onlookers, their eyes wide with a mixture of horror and something else– something that tasted like rebellion.

“Do you see this?” Grovyn shouted, his voice hoarse from the exertion. His body was clearly tired and he staggered to the left, loosely holding the whip. “This is what happens when you defy the King! Remember this well!”

The crowd’s murmurs only grew louder. They weren’t cowering– if anything, Grovyn’s brutality ignited a spark. The look on Serf Seraphiel’s face told me he noticed it too. This was the catalyst we needed, though none of us had wanted it to be Cyrus who suffered for it.

As the final lash landed, Cyrus slumped against the post, his body trembling but unbroken. Gorvyn stepped back, breathing heavily, his face flushed with exhaustion and anger. The Captain wiped the sweat from his brow, his eyes scanning the crowd as if daring anyone to speak out.

“Take this as a warning,” Gorvyn spat on the ground next to Cyrus, tossing the whip aside.

Cyrus wanted everyone to see it– a symbol of the King’s tyranny.

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