It was him, Aranthus was sure of it. The handsome man in crisp, gilded vestments, his long tresses of glittering golden hair that billowed gently in the frigid night air—it was the same one the Outsider had seen several times before, back when he and Pavo were hiding in the ruins.

Aranthus inhaled sharply, steeling his nerves in the presence of the high cleric. With luck, the cruel despot wouldn’t notice a single, frail Outsider child hidden within the tangled mob. As if to reassure himself, Aranthus tugged at his oversized hood to cover every scrap of flesh he could.

Does that man live here? Aranthus shivered, his hands grasping fiendishly at his cloak. Is he… going to hurt us, too?

It had been weeks since Aranthus last saw that hateful man skulk through the Forbidden Ruins with a small retinue of Star Guards. The cleric had waited for a lull between monsoon rains one night to slither down to a disused bone-stone mausoleum nestled deep in the heart of the decrepit sanctuary. Wherever he walked, every living thing, from rain-slicked ribbon weeds to ruins rats scampered and shied away from Lord Vythorne’s venomous green aura that surrounded him.

Aranthus ducked low and kept his rusty blade handy, should he need to ward off anyone straying too close to his home. It was a generous thought that he could defend himself and Pavo from interlopers, and ultimately an unnecessary one.

The golden-robed stranger seldom wandered anywhere near Pavo and Aranthus’s shabby lean-to by the Guardian Stone altar, but he always brought more people into the ruins than the number who left them, and that last time was no different. The cleric’s Star Guard dragged four adult Outsiders, bound and gagged, kicking and straining against their rusty bindings, into the ramshackle grave behind him.

Tormented by boundless curiosity, Aranthus crept closer to the jagged-edged stone tomb to listen in on the muffled voices within. An argument ensued in the Outsider tongue and commoner’s speech, with one foreign voice drowning out the other four. Though honey-sweet and commanding, the words dripped with malice, causing Aranthus to shiver where he crouched.

“<This one’s USELESS!>” the gilded ether master shouted behind the heavy wooden door. “<Not even a hint of ether left in her… I told you to bring me healthy, viable candidates, and this one’s not even fit for a BED-WARMER!>”

“We’re sorry, master,” one Star Guard replied, his voice wrought with fear and uncertainty. “We thought she would be suitable for your needs. She was part of a refugee caravan heading west, and we thought that—”

“<I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THOUGHT!>” Lord Vythorne roared so forcefully that scattered dust from the ancient bone-stone bricks of the tomb. “<You call THIS an OFFERING?!>”

Aranthus flinched at the sound of an Outsider woman hitting the stone floor, followed by the frightened muttering of the cleric’s holy guard. A piercing, heated energy seeped out from cracks in the mausoleum’s foundation, followed by a scorching stench of burning hair and charcoal, which wafted out from crevices between the mausoleum’s stony walls. An eerie silence snuffed out all sound in the heart of the ruins, which stole Aranthus’s breath as he waited to hear more. Shoulders that were tensed from gripping a bone-stone outcropping raised with a flinch at the cleric’s resounding orders.

“<Now GET OUT, all of you!>” Lord Vythorne commanded. “<And take these THINGS with you! Each and every one of you had better pray that his eminence is pleased with this dross, or so help me…>”

Lord Vythorne’s Star Guards emerged in a frenzy, hurriedly carrying the dried out remains of three shackled Outsiders, much to Aranthus's confusion. The prisoners who’d fought desperately against their bindings were little more than brittle sacks of skin stretched over agonized bony spikes, their gagged, gaping mouths frozen dead in mid-scream.

One final guard scrambled out from the tomb, tugging the only survivor from the sacrifices until she fell once more to the ground, weak and battered from being mishandled.

“Get up, wench,” a Star Guard lieutenant with chestnut brown hair whispered menacingly at the tall, skinny slave woman. The Outsider didn’t appear to understand the lieutenant’s demand, and he pinched the fresh, still-bloodied notch in her long, thin ear until the slave woman winced in pain. “<I said ‘stand up,’ filth… What is it? What are you staring at?>”

Sensing a trace of swirling ether, the battered slave woman locked eyes with Aranthus, who was still mostly concealed nearby. Her tear-filled stare pleaded with the child’s confused one, begging for the Aranthus to run away and save himself from the holy house’s notice. Not wanting to draw attention to the pale-blue child lurking behind the rubble, the slave woman stood slowly and cast her gaze to the ground, approaching the lieutenant with shaky footsteps.

“<Well, at least you aren’t a complete waste,>” the sleazy soldier remarked as he grabbed the Outsider’s narrow face with a silver gauntlet and forced her to meet his gaze. “<I bet we could get a handsome price for a face like this from that lecherous b*stard… How about it? Wouldn’t you like to serve someone like Lord Farthing, hmm?>”

Aranthus didn’t know what “candidates” or “bed-warmer” meant, but he did know what it was to serve. Slavery was still a common practice in some of the more lawless territories, including the high walled Outsider cities of the east, and Aranthus knew better than to let himself be captured for such a purpose. Some of the wealthier nobles of Holloworth had slaves, and it was a fate he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

“<Come on, this way,>” the Star Guard groused as he tugged on the slave woman’s chains. “<Let’s find out how many stags your carcass is worth, eh?>”

The gentle clinking of chains faded as the pair trudged away in the night, leaving only the whispering wind and a haunting voice remaining in the mausoleum. Aranthus hadn’t noticed his palms grow cold and clammy, nor if it was from the night’s rain-cooled air or the horrors he’d overheard and seen. Regardless, the Outsider lingered where he knelt, listening for signs of life before he risked scuttling back to the lean-to and being found.

Within the spooky ruin, the foreign voice spoke again, pleading to some unseen party for guidance and wisdom.

“<Are you not pleased, master?>” Lord Vythorne asked as a warm wind wafted from the tomb. “<I have done as you wished, spread your word, and established a new holy house to extend your influence… Am I not ready to reach the next level?>”

Silence. Unnatural, void-black silence. It was the kind of emptiness that forced one to wonder if they’d gone deaf, or if the world itself had stopped dead.

“<Master, I beseech you, tell me. Have you forsaken your faithful servant? What must I do to earn your favor once more?>” Confidence bled from Vythorne’s voice as his questions remained unanswered, allowing a twinge of frustration to settle in. “<If this is a test, then I am unsure of the rules. If you could send me a sign…>”

In that moment, Lord Vythorne got his wish for a reply. Aranthus shuddered at a blanket of icy mist that crept upon the mausoleum from below the earth, smothering its immediate radius with oppressive dampness. His keen Outsider eyes spotted something strange happening within the lingering haze, and he was grateful to be outside of its effect upon closer examination.

A ruins rat perched inquisitively on a serrated spike of toppled bone-stone, only to gasp hellaciously and fall dead within the dank, dreary mist. Its lifeless body contorted horrifically by the unholy portent, mutilated beyond recognition. Weeds and insects shriveled and perished under the shroud, until nothing remained alive inside.

Monster. Aranthus swallowed as his dwindling ether flooded his veins. Just outside the mist’s effect, the pale-blue Outcast toppled backwards from his crouch and ran from the tomb as fast as his spindly legs could carry him, uncaring for any sounds he made during his hasty retreat.

Overhearing the scattering of gravel and crash of a few displaced bricks outside from Aranthus’s escape, Lord Vythorne emerged from his ersatz temple and smiled broadly at the carnage and decay around him. The clatter, he assumed, must have been sent by his sovereign to draw the lord’s ear, and the cleric was grateful for the gift laid out before him. Lord Vythorne’s patron had seen fit to send the cleric a sign, one that planted a seed in his mind to earn his master’s esteem anew.

“<Of course! Of course!>” Lord Amias Vythorne crowed at the sprouting inspiration as it took root, digging tendrils of malicious thought deep into his foul mind. “<You are wise, master! This humble servant thanks you for your blessing. It will take time, your eminence, but I shall succeed. I promise you…>”

The handsome magician loped happily back to his opulent Grand Cathedral, crushing more than dead ribbon weeds underfoot as he strode away. A rush of euphoria filled the cleric to bursting, and his honey-sweet laugh carried deep into the Forbidden Ruins, all the way to the trembling outcast’s ears. It had been many years since Lord Vythorne had felt this flush with victory. With the blessing of his god, and the eager support from throngs of ignorant Cheapsiders, the conditions were ideal for a new order.

For the first time in ages, he had a plan.

---

Snapping back to reality from one nightmare to another, Aranthus inhaled sharply as Lord Vythorne cast his gaze to the front gate of the Grand Cathedral. The cleric’s dark, infinitely-piercing eyes scanned the clamoring mob of townspeople, and another delicious grin threatened to show on his carefully manicured face. His upper lip quivering with delight, Lord Vythorne extended his arms to cast amplification magic, so that all below might hear his decrees.

“Citizens of Old Sarzonn,” Vythorne proclaimed in a soft, kind voice that reverberated through the mob, “the holy house has heard your pleas. Fear not, good people, for the truly righteous shall have their deliverance.”

The mob continued their outcries with muddled voices, having not understood Lord Vythorne’s meaning. Was he promising relief from sickness? From fear? As their voices threatened to drown out his own, Amias frowned before tailoring his message further to clarify for the ignorant masses panicking at his feet.

“You are all free to worship here in safety, under the protective shroud of the unknowable saviors. Through their benevolence, you shall be delivered from destruction and disease.” On the high cleric’s command, a host of Star Guards descended from the Grand Cathedral and slowly approached the gates, with some bearing empty velvet sacks in their hands. “And the chosen among you are invited to stay in the annex of the cathedral itself, fully protected from this blight.”

A tremor of curiosity reverberated through the crowd, until the mob clamored with overlapping voices to know how they could get in. Throats dried out and open mouths frothed at the promise of deliverance. A sea of Cheapsiders echoed loudly enough to rattle the stained-glass window behind his holiness, much to his satisfaction.

What must we do to enter the sacred annex?

In that moment, Lord Vythorne allowed a smirk to cross his face. He could ask for anything—anything at all from this rabble. They were so frightened, so desperate for relief that would some would offer their very lives for a loved one’s protection. If he asked for sacrifice, Lord Vythorne could get it…

But no, not yet... It was too early in the game to press for a major concession from these people. They were scared, surely, but not rabid. Amias Vythorne needed true converts, not cowards, and knew exactly what to ask for without arousing suspicion. The high cleric could test the waters from the safety of the Grand Cathedral’s lofty perch, and line his pockets with their folly in the meantime.

With an assuring, syrupy sweetness to his tone, Lord Vythorne smiled and spoke again only when the mob’s frenzy reached its zenith.

“Good people, kind people; the Grand Cathedral happily accepts you and appreciates your faith in us,” Vythorne oozed. “However, we are still a small house, and cannot afford to seek out more priests here to maintain the holy shroud. The House of the Divine Healer is in need of your help as well. We humbly ask that believers seeking shelter in the sacred annex offer a donation to secure their places, as there are limited spots available…”

Another brief silence descended on the crowd, until the more alert of the masses recognized the limits of this rare and essential opportunity. Ripples of panic set in once it was understood that not everyone could afford entry to the sacred annex. Frazzled hands set to work at their masters’ purses as the mob descended into collective chaos. Trembling fingers untangled purse strings to count out the required sum of stags and does for entry, with some even resorting to pooling resources or stealing to meet Lord Vythorne’s requirement.

The honey-trap set; Lord Vythorne eagerly awaited his prey to fill the velvet sacks his guards had brought. Everyone rushed the gates, except for one small child in an oversized cloak, who ripped away from his guardian and fled the precinct in abject terror.