*** A few hours earlier, back at the orphanage.***
Head Sister Patricia was in her office, sipping on a cup of tea with a disgusted look.
'It's just a few herbs and hot water. How is Moros's so much better than mine?'
Just then there was a knock on the door.
She quickly hid some of the documents sprawled on her desk under blank parchment paper, before fixing her uniform.
"Come in."
The door creaked open, revealing a massive creature with black scales and silver eyes glowing beneath a monstrous head.
"Inquisitor Michael," she scoffed, visibly tensing in her seat.
The creature took off its helm, revealing the face of a man. Buzz cut hair and silver eyes. If not for his greyed hair, one could never have guessed he was nearing his 60s.
"Patricia," he said with disdain, slowly stepping into her office. The medals on his black armour made rhythmic clinking sounds with every step he took.
Patricia stared at them with disgust. To her, they were nothing but the trophy heads of slain children, heretics or not; she found it dishonourable that he still displayed them so proudly after all these years.
"If you're done with the investigation, you may leave, Michael. I specifically asked that I not be disturbed. "
The inquisitor glanced at her desk, noting that some of the documents were crumbled up... like they had been moved in a rush.
"It doesn't look like I've disturbed much, besides more of your scheming," he said, dropping his helm on her desk.
He closed the door and began wandering around her office, staring at the pictures hung on the wall. Most of them were of her and other nuns, some were of various orphans from over the years.
"Why are you here, Michael? A hundred inquisitors in the Circle of Hounds, and you're the one to show up?"
The inquisitor remained silent.
He was staring at an old painting of her still in her youth. She was standing next to a silver-eyed boy, barely tall enough to hug her hip.
"If you came just to reminisce, you're 40 years late," she added.
"Unlike you, I keep my personal motivations separate from my holy duties," he whispered, turning around to meet her eye.
"You requested that one of the testing chambers be locked... I'm told there was an incident there," he said.
She scoffed at that.
"Your investigation was with the boy named John. If you're done with..."
He held up an armoured hand to stop her.
"My inquisition is the orphanage and any and all indicators which may rouse suspicion of heretic activity," he corrected.
"How's your boy?" Patricia asked, averting her attention back to her cup of tea.
"Don't change the subject."
She looked out the window. "I hear he graduated to knight third class."
"Patricia... the baptism pit. Who was it? What is the child's name."
"Gabriel, that was the name she gave your boy before the... incident. Wasn't it?"
Michael stormed to her desk, and pounded a fist into it, cracking its bronze surface. "Enough about my family. Tell me the child's name."
Patricia held out her hand, caressing his cheek. "It wasn't your fault."
For a moment, he hesitated, before drawing back from her touch.
"If you won't co-operate, then I'll have to put you under truth-say."
He made a circular hand gesture with his fingers, and his eyes began glowing. A book appeared out of thin air, its pages flipping wildly until it stopped on a page with tongue-like symbol.
"The child is gone," Patricia said finally. Despite her age she had faith that she could still win against her old student, but a truth-say commandment was not something her elderly mind would walk away from unscathed.
"Name," he spat.
"I know the boy. He isnt a heretic, Michael."
He scoffed. "Thats not for you to decide. You aren't an inquisitor anymore."
That struck a nerve. "And yet with that pathetic title, you still couldn't tell what Mary was going through before it was too late."
Silence descended upon them.
Michael pointed a finger at her, and the floating book beside him pulsed to life.
Vines of wooden thorns tore out, wrapping around her like coiling snakes.
She just stared at him, more dissapointed than afraid.
The thorns dug into her skin, drawing blood, and her eyes rolled back in their sockets.
'I did my part... now keep your end of the deal,' she thought, as her consciousness left.
A voice, deep within her mind replied. 'His will be done.'
Michael crept closer, straining to keep a hold over her mind. Unaware, that his own mind was being read.
"The child's name," he ordered.
"Moros," she replied, her voice drone like.
"Why did you try to hide this?"
...
**
Moros had passed out shortly after the attack. When he finally awoke, he was lying in a bed.
He stood up with a start, finger already running over his wrist as his eyes scanned the new environment.
It was a small room; bed, table, closet, and no windows to speak off.
"Wait... I can stand?" he suddenly realized, looking down at his body. Not a single scratch or bruise remained from his torture. Not even an ache from his once broken bones.
"How?" he whispered.
Just then, something screeched in the distance beyond the walls.
He stumbled back, just staring at the walls as if waiting for something to burst through.
Once it was clear that nothing was coming, he pressed his ears against one of the walls.
He could just barely make out the sound of crashing waves, and perculiar animal calls he had never heard before.
"Where am I?"
He thought to open the door, but quickly decided against it. The last time he had done that, things hadn't gone so well.
His eyes shifted to the desk.
The academy book lay there, opened on a page with a map.
There was bold writing, at the very top:
[Writheborn Academy campus directions.]