We trudged knee-deep in the muck the locals called a road. After the perfectly smooth decks and corridors of the sector, this landscape felt like chaotic garbage. The Skill in my head kept spinning, analyzing the mud's viscosity and the trajectories of falling raindrops.
"Kid, keep your eyes on the ground," Ephraim warned in a whisper, walking half a step ahead. "Pull your hood down lower."
I obeyed, lowering my head. Mud squelched beneath my feet.
Behind us, Zeno walked heavily and rhythmically. We had wrapped him in three layers of old burlap and pieces of canvas we found in the forest, and I had fashioned him a leg out of scrap materials. "That was a nightmare," I thought. Every step he took was accompanied by a faint metallic scrape, which I tried to drown out with a cough or the shuffling of my feet.
The village met us with the stench of smoke and sewage. A cluster of gray shacks crammed together.
A crowd had gathered in the central square. Thirty people, no more. Dirty, exhausted, dressed in unbleached linen. They knelt before a low wooden platform where a man in a blue robe paced. In his hands, he held a carved staff with a pale blue flame flickering at its tip.
"See that?" Ephraim muttered. "A mage. One of those... Academy types, probably."
I narrowed my eyes, looking at the fire. The Skill instantly spat out the data: Oxide of white phosphorus. Low combustion temperature. Energy output: zero.
"Cheap trick," I said quietly.
The "mage" raised his hands to the sky.
"For it is said: the light of the Academy will expel the darkness from your hearts! Pay your tithe, and your cattle will no longer die of disease!"
He lowered the staff into a bowl of water. For a moment, the flame flared bright green. The crowd gasped and fell prostrate. I noticed him covertly tossing a pinch of powder into it. Copper salts, most likely.
We tried to slip along the edge of the square, hiding in the shadows of the shacks. But Zeno let out a loud metallic clang.
One of the villagers at the edge of the square turned around.
"Hey! Who are you?"
The crowd froze. The "mage" slowly lowered his glowing staff.
"We are travelers, master," Ephraim bowed instantly. "My grandson is taken ill. We were heading to the forest healer but lost our way in the dark. Have mercy, good people."
The "mage"—Waldo—stepped down from the platform. He stopped five paces from us.
"Take off the hood, boy," he ordered. "I must check you for demonic marks."
A thought flashed in my head: One strike to the throat. Lethality probability: 89%. Execution time: 0.4 seconds. I suppressed it. If I killed him, the entire village would turn on us.
"The boy is shy, master," Ephraim tried to step between us. "His face was burned. A blacksmith accident..."
Waldo ignored him. He extended his staff, hooked the edge of my hood, and yanked it back.
A collective, sharp gasp rippled through the crowd. In the reflection of the flames, my eyes looked inhuman. Add to that an emaciated, gray face and the stump of an arm wrapped in bloody rags...
"Possessed!" some woman screamed, clutching her child.
Waldo froze for a fraction of a second.
"The Abyss has marked you, traveler," he announced grandiosely, bringing the phosphorus flame close to my face. "Your eyes are burned by sin. And what is this creature with you?"
He pointed at Zeno.
"This is... my other grandson," Ephraim stammered. "Born... a hunchback. And mute."
Waldo smirked. He stepped closer and sniffed.
"Smells like burnt flesh... and oil? Strange rabble. The Academy loves studying freaks like this. And the Inquisition would pay me handsomely if I turned you in at the nearest post."
"Greedy scum," I thought.
"Your stick is running out of phosphorus, master," I said quietly.
Waldo flinched. His face contorted with rage.
"What nonsense are you spewing, heretic?"
"If you don't let us pass," I took a step forward, "and give us bread... I'll tell them why your water burns green. And why your 'holy flame' doesn't burn your fingers—if you know how to hold the staff right."
Waldo stared at me.
"Get lost," he finally hissed, turning back to the crowd. "The Academy's light is merciful. I sense that the curse has not yet entirely consumed this boy's soul. Let them go before I change my mind."
"The bread," I reminded him.
Waldo ripped a stale flatbread from his bag and threw it at my feet.
"Out of my village."
I picked it up, wiped it on my pants, and nodded to Ephraim. We slowly walked away.
When the village lights faded from view, Ephraim finally let out a loud breath.
"He'll send word to the Inquisition, for sure."
"The Order, the Inquisition, Valerius, potentially the Academy... We really hit the jackpot," I thought.
"Anyway, we still have a few hours' head start," I glanced at Zeno. "Pick up the pace. We need to get off the road."
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