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Iknow better than anyone, because I’m watching the fate that awaits me someday too.
Three
The procession of soldiers jerks to a halt. They pivot to face their audience.
The guards on either side of the sorcerer yank him around, clamping him in place as his feet tangle beneath him.
As long as they’re alive, nothing’s been discovered that can remove or shut away the magic of the riven. The authorities drug the sorcerers into a stupor from the moment they catch them so they don’t have the wits to focus their power.
With an unclouded mind, the man in the sack and chains could murder every living being in this courtyard in a matter of seconds. Men and women like himhavemurdered thousands in the past in their attempts to evade capture… or simply because it served their mad purposes.
Sorcerers like us didn’t ask for our magic. We’re not limited to a single gift. The power flows through our broken souls if we answer the call, more than any mortal could know what to do with.
More than any mortal can indulge in and keep their right mind.
All magic requires sacrifice, after all. For every act that prisoner carried out with his, his power took its payment.
If you want health, someone else must fall ill. If you want to prosper, others will go without.
And you don’t get to choose who suffers the penalty.
There’s nothing I want enough to ignore the consequences of giving my magic free rein. I’ve already lost enough to it.
As long as I resist, I can hope that I never get to the point where I don’t even care who I hurt, as this man must have.
The soldiers drag the sorcerer onto the platform. They position him just in front of the dangling noose, his bare feet on the trap door. His head droops within the sack.
It’s a little mad that the king and his royal clerics parade the riven in front of a vulnerable crowd. I’d imagine they make very certain their prisoner is totally addled before marching them out.
They feel the risk of people fearing that the feral sorcerers are rampaging unchecked is worse. And no doubt they enjoy showing off their power, that they brought this monster under control.
Every riven sorcerer captured throughout Silana is brought to the capital for their public execution, under the eyes of the royal family.
A brighter glow expands across the balcony at the top of the temple’s central wall, high above its arched doorway. All the voices in the courtyard fall totally silent.
In the yellowish conjured light, I make out the majestic figures of King Konram and Queen Ishild, flanked by their two living children, Princess Klaudia and Prince Jacos, and two of the highest-ranking clerics.
The royal family is all dressed in the deep purple associated with Creaden, the godlen of leadership and justice who blesses the royal line. Both of the teenaged royals stand with elegance equal to their parents, their dark brown hair that matches their father’s gathered beneath their more modest crowns.
Years younger than me, and they’ve already accepted their duty in presiding over these killings.
The eerie lighting brings out the king’s sharp features—his prominent nose and jutting chin. His commanding baritone courses over us.
“My people. You have come to witness the end of one of the riven. I have nothing but sorrow in my heart for the harm he carried out, but immense gratitude that we can subdue the danger before any more lives are lost and livelihoods destroyed.”
A cheer rises up from the swarm of spectators. My voice stays locked in my throat.
King Konram waits until the clamor has fallen away to continue speaking. “It has been nearly two years since we last put down such a villain. I believe this indicates that their numbers are dwindling—fewer souls born riven, fewer remaining among us. I have hope that I will see the day when we no longer need to fear their presence at all.”
The audience outright roars their approval.
I adjust my hands against the gritty stone walls, but the ache that’s spreading through the muscles in my shoulders isn’t quite as uncomfortable as the one expanding in my chest.
One of the clerics steps forward, the light illuminating her multi-colored robe. She rests her hands on the wall at the edge of the balcony.
Her voice rings out clear as crystal. “Five centuries ago, our realms turned on our All-Giver and the Great God’s godlen. The riven souls among us are part of the penance we pay. With each abomination we cut down, we prove our devotion to the One who made us. May the All-Giver see and return to smile on us once again.”
A more muted cheer lifts to meet that plea. No one, noble or lowborn, likes to think about the disgrace that left our realms abandoned by the omnipotent divinity who once guided us.
