The Priesthood

Kanrel held the file in his arms, trembling and reading through the title of it over and over again. This name has had no explanation so far. This person, who was somehow related to buying explosives and taking part in corruption, was accused of terrorism by the pages in a binder he had read at the Office of Peace.

This person had no other shape than a name on a piece of paper. He opened the file and began reading; he didn’t want to wait or process the experience that he had just gone through.

The file began with just the name, and then it listed the crimes they had committed:

The murder of Hans Kemler, the murder of Yrne Wern, the murder of Shai Grand, the murder of Ulrich Dargavian...

The list of murders committed went on and on, for ninety-eight names, until the final name was that of Wiltem Torna. The other names were unknown to him; they meant nothing, and even in the planted memories, there was no mention of them. Only Wiltem Torna.

In a similar fashion, there was a list of acts of terrorism and a different list of people who had died. They too, in a gruesome way, are no different from murder, but in large quantities—at most hundreds—in one act of terrorism.

There was no context given to any of it, just names of places and the names of victims; thousands must have died because of the actions of this one individual.

Why had they done as they did? There was no mention, no speculation, just data. Why was it here? And why was it here now?

The creature that had called themselves the Sharan of Lies and Truths must have wanted him to know all of this. For one reason or another... Was the Voice the same, Sharan? Were they the ones leading Kanrel here?

Ignar Orcun was someone who committed crimes against everyone, it seemed. But for what reason?

The locations of the acts of terror seemed at times to be something random; one of the attacks was on a plaza in the District of Iron, another at a theater in the District of Silver, but there were strikes at different Offices of Peace as well; even this tower had been one of the locations where a terror attack had happened.

Random attacks, or were they? Wouldn’t there always be some sort of logic behind an action—a reason? There’d always be something—a motive, an ideology, or logic—behind an action like this, or really any action.

He would just have to figure that out. But the issue was time again. He didn’t have much time. Perhaps less than forty-eight hours before the trial of Hartar Agna.

He placed the file on the floor and read the titles of the other files in the filing cabinet. They were names of people that had been on the list of victims; they were names of places where acts of terror had happened. He took out the one that was about Wiltem Torna, opened it, and began reading.

It had information about the victims, who they were, what they did, and who the people in their lives were. And then, reasons as to why they were killed...

Corruption, extortion, and the failure to abide by the vows that a member of the Office of Peace must take.

Solution: swift execution.

Note: An innocent bystander named Hartar Agna was then caught, interrogated, judged, and sentenced to death. This cannot be helped; it must happen; it had to happen.

Kanrel dropped the file and read through another file, another name, and another victim:

Yrne Wern, a member of the Domain of War and Peace, is ranked a sergeant at the Office of Peace; they work in the District of Silver; they have no close family members alive. A friend of Ulrich Dargavian.

Corruption, murder, rape—the failure to abide by the vows and morals that a member of the Office of Peace must take.

Solution: torture and slow execution.

Note: They screamed, and they screamed for mercy and for help; no help came. I wonder if they screamed as much as their victims did.

Kanrel took another file, this time one about one of the acts of terror:

Location: the Tower of Lies and Truths

A symbol of our failures and the question: Why must the truth die first?

Target: the gathering of fools at the Cafe N’Sharan.

All they do is talk about the same things; many of them take part in the death of truth; many of them profit from it; these valued members of our society look from far above and criticize the many that live below...

Solution: Purge; let fire purge them all; let fire set them free; let the truth set them free.

Date: the 31st day of the 9th month of the 1207th year of the Common Times.

Note: Let the truth be the fire that sets them free.

Kanrel stared at the file in his hands. He read through it again and again. The date was today; it had not happened yet. It was today. He dropped the file and began to run. He left the room with the filing cabinet and entered the corridor with only the doors that were open. He ran to the elevator, went inside, and pressed the button that would lead him to the floor where the cafe was.

The doors closed, and he began to pace. The buzz that the elevator made was once soothing, but now it felt too slow. It had to be quicker; the elevator was too slow. "Bling," and the doors opened.

He took a hurried step onto the floor, and there was no fire; no smoke. The cafe was like it always had been. The people were gathered around their tables, holding papers, and talking in sentences that made no sense to him. At times, they would sip coffee from their cups or take bites from cookies and other pastries.

There was nothing to indicate an attack on this cafe. They were safe. And in his mind, he had but one question: what about it? In his mind, he had already condemned all these people who had gathered here. He looked down on them; he saw them as the reason why the city below was so unequal and corrupt. They partook in the corruption of this city; they turned their blind eyes toward it and took from it; they became richer because of it; they became more powerful and richer; this was paradise for them.

So what about it? Would they not get what they deserved? Fire—should it not purge those who were worse than criminals? Should it not cleanse this earth? He pondered, but even still, he could only believe one thing; he could find only one morally correct conclusion: perhaps they would deserve it, but at the same time, two wrongs don’t make a right.

These people should be punished within the laws of the city, not by the hands of a murderer who didn’t care about the innocent bystanders that they might harm in their self-righteous quest for justice.

So he had to stop it. He had to find the person who was behind all of these acts of terror and murder. He searched the crowds of people and observed the many waiters that went around the cafe, bringing food and drinks to those who had ordered them.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary. So he began to walk around. He looked more closely; surely the person who was behind all of this would be more alive than the other people who were here. Surely they would be able to speak and interact with him.

So he went around, tapping people on their shoulders, trying to make contact with them, but no one would say a word. People would drift past him or ignore him altogether. He was not there; he didn’t exist.

A service trolley went past him, one covered in cloth, and under it something, perhaps a cloche. He went to it and pulled the cloth away. He lifted the cloche, but beneath there was only food. Similar trolleys went around the room; most of them had food on trays and pots that had tea and coffee in them.

But a few of the trolleys were covered with cloth as well, so he hurried to another one that he saw, pulled away the cloth, and lifted the cloche, finding only food again. The people around him were talking loudly; they ignored his actions as he went to another trolley, again pulling away the cloth, and again only revealing more food.

He could not find it; would it even happen today? Was this even the correct place and the correct time? He was brought to a sudden stop. Eyes—he could feel eyes on him. Someone was looking right at him, someone who had weight to their gaze, someone who had more magic than all of the people combined here had...

Hurriedly, he looked around and tried to find this person, but he could not. No one was looking at him. And soon, he could smell it. The smell of something burning—the smell of smoke and ash. He could not find where it had begun. He could only witness the whole floor burst into flames.

Fire, everywhere. People—screaming in agony. Smoke and fire. He could see nothing. He could do nothing about it—nothing for the people that had gathered here. Nothing for anyone. Yet he did not burn; he was left unaffected by the flames and unaffected by the smoke.

But the screams. They filled his head; they filled everything. It had all happened so quickly, and it ended after mere moments. The fire dissipated. The smoke slowly cleared. All he could see was the ash that covered the floor, the charred floor, the charred ceiling, and the charred walls. Everything else was burned into nothing. There lay corpses on the ground, but one could not recognize if it was one or more people there; they were partly just piles of ash.

There were no more tables around, no more chairs, and not a single arc of paper. There was melted metal in places where there had been cutlery.

He couldn’t do anything about it. He could observe as a hundred more people died in mere moments. The screams had stopped, but he could still hear them. The fire had gone, but he could still see it. It had burned itself into his memory, and all the while he could do nothing about any of it.

Soon, he felt the eyes again. He looked around and soon saw a figure that stood still and looked straight at him—a figure that was covered in ash. They made no movement; they just observed.

“Why?” Kanrel whispered, yet he knew the answer already. He just stared at the figure, who just stared back at him. There was silence, and with that silence, the figure disappeared; it was carried away by a wind that pushed all of the ash away from the floor, out of the many balconies that oversaw the city beneath.

If one stood outside, they could see as the wind carried the ashes of the dead away, far away.

Only Kanrel was left alone in a room that, on its walls, floors, and ceiling, showed the memory of the fire that had touched it and that had cleansed it.

It was hard to understand and process, even if it was just a memory or a vision of something that had already happened. It felt so real; it was real, once. Bothered by what he had just seen and experienced and by the anger that beat in his temples, he returned to the elevator, pressed the button that was left unharmed by the fire, and stepped inside. He had so much more that he had to read through.

He had to understand each and every single victim that had died thus far, each and every act of terror that had happened if there were still more to come, and if this was just the beginning of another series of acts of terror.

Ignar Orcun is a murderer and nothing more. Ignar Orcun, a name he had to figure out, and a name that now had a figure and shape—they weren't just a name, they were a person.

The elevator buzzed as he descended. It reminded him of the fire and what it had sounded like, yet it was nothing like it. The doors opened, followed by a familiar sound. Before him was an intersection that led to three different ways. On the left and on the right, there were two corridors that continued until they hit a wall.

In front of him was a corridor of many doors; all of them had a number, and all of them were closed.

The elevator door closed behind him as he stared at the corridor, at the doors that were supposed to be open; had he not left them open?

Without turning around, he tried pressing the button to open the doors again, but he could not find it, so he turned around, but it was not there; the elevator doors weren’t there anymore. It was just a wall now, solid and without a crack in it.

He needed to run; he needed to leave this place. On his right and on his left, the two corridors were now gone as well. Only the corridor with many doors was still there.

Enticing. Asking, wanting him to open them, to enter and see what they had to offer, all the things the doors wanted to show, what they wanted him to see.

But he had to get out of here. It could not be safe here; it would never be.

“Let me out of here!” He yelled out loud, glancing around him, trying to find the Voice, trying to beg for it to let him go. But there was no answer. Only silence was there for him; it was all there ever was for him.

He could not use his magics. He could not open the door to the elevator; he could not leave this level. He should have never come here; he should have never entered the door that was made out of shadows. He should have never entered the ruins; he should have turned around and reported his findings.

He wanted to go, not because he longed for it, but because it would not be safe here. He regretted everything—every decision that had led him here. In this corridor and its many doors.

The fire and flames, the ash of the dead. The whispers calling him to enter. The figure that observed him, the Voice that brought him here, guided him with memories that could be false, and the creature that had held his head tried to crush him but instead gave him information.

What was real and what was not? Was there anything that was real? Had any of this truly happened? Was this memory true, or was it all false, a creation of the so-called warden of this prison? Or the Angels themselves...

There were just the doors and nothing else.

Kanrel braced himself; he sought within all the courage that he could muster, and he went to the first door. One that he had opened before. And as he opened it, there was no sound. There was just silence, not the sound of all the doors opening at once.

And on the other side, there was a mirror, and in that mirror, there was someone—one of the Sharan—with an exotic face that had scales on it and deep blue eyes that trembled. Their fear could be seen so clearly on the face of this person. This person was him and no one else.

He touched his own face, and the reflection followed the movements he made. The scales on his face were smooth and warm, and they glittered in many colors all at once. Surely they were beautiful, or considered to be so by the Sharans; as a human, he had not been so beautiful. He had never felt beautiful or handsome. He had only ever felt human until he no longer did.

He touched the surface, and as he touched it, he could physically feel what he once felt. All emotion came back to him, all desire, and all happiness that he had ever experienced. Everything at once. A euphoric moment of freedom that was soon crushed by reality—the memories that he carried, the memories of the loved ones that he could now miss, the love that he had for them—pushed him to continue even when he did not want to.

And then the one he had lost. Yirn. The bitter feelings, now more confusing than ever, were mixed together with love and care, with hate and desire, and with anguish and pain.

As if it burned, he pulled his hand away, and a wave of disgust poured in. It lingered again—the power that was within that he could not access in this place, in this memory of a place. The face that he now bared, that he no longer could face; so ugly it had become—disrupted by fragmentation of once-had feelings, distorted into a mask of pain, a face that knew not of love but only of agony.

Slowly he closed the door, and no sound was created; only silence followed the moment he had shared with a reflection.

He went to the door across and opened it as well. Behind it was first formless darkness, then a light spread, creating an image, and that image moved. In this image, he saw himself as he truly was, a king who sat on a throne of his own desires: women and gold, riches that would otherwise be unimaginable. But here, in this image, he had it all. He slowly smiled and whispered something—words that he could not hear.

The image remained, but there was no more movement. He closed the door; it was something he had never desired to have; it was something that looked wrong, that was wrong; something that would never be, something he would never become. Or so he hoped.

Behind the next door, another vision showed itself: he as someone loving and caring, sharing moments with his friends and family; a house of peace, the very same in which he had lived with his mother. Yviev was there, as were Wen and Uanna, and his mother was there. And so was Yirn.

He closed the door; even if he wished for something like that, it could never be, it never was, and it never will be like that. Yirn is dead, and it was something he had to accept. Yirn was dead, and he was someone he could never forgive.

The next door revealed a wintery landscape—a village where he had spent a few years and where he now lived as an old man. Slowly, it changed, and he could see himself kneeling before an altar, praying to the painting of an angel. In his heart and mind, there was only wonder and despair. The old man that was him kept mumbling, pleading for something he could not make out. Praying for something he could guess: release and salvation.

This was perhaps what he would become. Yet the vision of it felt conflicting; even as a future, it remained unreal and something he would not want to become or be. Why was he here? What were these doors? Were these options the things and people he could become?

Each door he opened offered a different vision and a different image of the man that he could be. A future in which he was in love, a future in which he had children, a future in which he had both, and a future in which he had neither. A future where he was a king, a future where he was a slave, a future that was just dark, thus a future where he was already dead. A future where he was like he had once been, a man able to feel joy and love like any other man. A human, once more.

That was what he wanted the most. He wanted to be a human again. He wanted to feel like a human again. But the moment in which he had that ability and that feeling, he felt so conflicted and uncertain about everything that he felt and what he had done. It was unlikely that he would feel any better in a world as such, but even with that pain, he believed that he could stand it; he needed to stand it. He would survive it so that he could again be human. A man.

He was now at the last door. At the end of the corridor, there was now a door that was not there before. This door had no number, but he opened it either way. Behind the last door was just a room.

And in that room stood a figure. Neither a man nor a creature. They looked away and just stood there; they were imposing; they were magnificent. They were grander than anyone else that he had ever seen. He could not see their face, but he could see their wings. They were scaley and large, covered in gold.

He entered the room and slowly approached the figure that stood in the center of it all. Slowly he walked in front of them; slowly he could see their face; it was not the same face of the creature that had called themselves the Sharan of Lies and Truths.

This person had a different face, one that was familiar as well. Even as they stood face-to-face, they looked past him. They did not see Kanrel that was before them; they saw something else, something that was past Kanrel.

So he turned around to see where the winged person was looking. He could see a city below, divided into many pieces and many sectors. Far away were the Tower of Ivory and the richer districts of the city, and just below them was the District of Copper, and that which they stood on top of was a wall.

Kanrel turned back to the winged person, but they just stood there, looking down. Past them, Kanrel could see that they were no longer in a room but on the great wall that surrounded all of N’Sharan, and this wall was the one that was in between the ocean and the District of Copper.

The waves hit the thick wall, unable to breach it or go over it. This wall was all that kept the District Below from drowning; it was a magnificent achievement of engineering, architecture, and magic. The whole construction that surrounded the city reeked of this magic.

"Death," the winged person said suddenly, prompting Kanrel to again look at them. They still looked only at the district below and asked, “Is death not the only thing that can bring true peace?” Their voice was deep, and they had such authority in it.

It was a voice Kanrel would follow without a second of hesitation. This voice was that of a general or a king, one that would inspire many in battle, one that would inspire anyone to follow him into death, into the depths of his enemies, even if it could only end up in that death. That death—the only thing that could free the living—could free them all.

That would bring peace.

The winged person lifted their gaze and turned around. “There will be a war, one I have waited for since the building of this city, one that you believed we would never have to fight.”

They looked straight at Kanrel; their eyes peered into him; they peered into his soul; and perhaps there they saw something, but they did not look truly at him; they looked at someone else as they said, “My old friends, this war will come, and it will destroy this paradise we have built."

“We are no better than our old enemy, and we should never try to disrupt the cycle of empires."

“Nothing lasts forever." They said with a sad smile that lingered on their tired face, they looked at something—at someone past Kanrel, and Kanrel looked at them.

The waves hit the walls below; it was peaceful at that moment. It was peaceful as the walls began to crumble. As the ocean reclaimed what was meant to be theirs, Kanrel could only look at the Sharan of War and Peace, the creature that stood before him in all of its magnificence. Their wings were gold, and their face was that of the angel that decorated the painting in the temple that he had called home for years now.

He could only look at them as the district beneath was swallowed by the ocean, and in the blink of an eye, it was all gone. The angel, the walls, the city... Next, he laid his eyes on the familiar doors of the elevator. All he now knew was that he was descending.