The night was very quiet.
Wind drifted over the destroyed lands as if it were a restless spirit. The air was metallic and earthy. Somewhere beyond the hills, the world's hope was still alive, but here in the empty plains Elias was walking, silence was the only god that answered.
He was moving like someone who was being chased. There was fire still on his cloak, the ash of the temple that has fallen was still on it. The mark beneath his cloth was burning faintly, the mark was a fire and blood from heaven-divine carved one. It was beating like his heart, as if it understood every life that was still after his death.
The Citadel of Dawn was behind him, wrecked.
He could still see the fire that killed the city two nights ago even when they were out because they closed their eyes — the falling of the towers, the screams being drowned by the noise of the holy thunder. And beneath all this, that voice, coming from the mark: You were the one chosen. Not by people. Not by gods. By the fire itself.
He had no reply. He was scared of himself agreeing with it.
Elias was stopping by the water body. The water was flowing dark and dirty. He was drinking water from his bare hand which he had scooped from the running water. The mark on him was still humming and the wound which made the mark was not deadly but eternal.
Behind him at a distance, torches were flickering — the lights were faint but the movement was ordered. The Inquisition. They were after him again and had found his trail once more.
He got up, and looked around with his eyes wide open.
The land in front of him was sloping down to a valley full of mist and dark trees. A place no man would go there willingly. That was his only choice. He crossed the river, his boot covered with mud and went deep into the forest where the trees were gray and can't be seen clearly.
Inquisition camp, two hours behind.
Brother-Captain Daren was down on one knee beside the brook. He touched the mud in which Elias's footprints were the deepest. However, the mud on his fingers was still warm.
"He was here," he declared.
The riders clad in armor and numbering twelve, stood silently and watched the scene. The wind was making the torches flicker and the flames of the torches were dying down. The riders were wearing cloaks with the symbol of the Faith embroidered on them — the mark of judgment.
Sister Aveline came off her horse and walked over. Her dress was neater than that of the others and her tone was very calm. "We are finding less and less of the trail with every night. We have not seen six of them, already."
Daren answered, "If we halt, then we will lose more." He got up and his face was illuminated by the light of the torches. "He is the one who carries the blasphemy of the old flame. The moment he is not set ablaze, the work of the Faith is not yet done."
Aveline scrutinized the footprints once more. "He had been one of our kind, at least."
"Only once," Daren repeated. "At present, he is but a sinful echo."
The reply she gave was silence. In her grip, she had a small ledger — as a chronicler her obligation was to record every deed, every death, every miracle. Nevertheless, she felt that with each entry starting from the burning of the Citadel, the weight grew. The Faith was preaching light and yet the more she wrote the more it looked to her as if her ink was blood.
Daren issued the command to leave. The men got on their horses. The torches were raised like little stars against the night. They were heading towards the east and following the footprints which led into the valley.
The hunt had started once more.
The forest welcomed Elias with the coldness of things long dead. Trees stood like the pillars of old and forgotten cathedrals. Fog wrapped their feet. He went quietly, with his hand on the handle of his sword — a sword which was darkened by the same fire that scarred him.
There was no sound for hours, only his own breath. Still, he was sure that they would come. The Inquisition never ceased. When they hunted, they were not men. They were incorporeal expressions of law.
Memory of a time flooded his mind — Daren's voice during the trial. "Faith requires obedience, Elias. You are the one who swore to the flame. You are the one who broke that oath."
He would have said: "The oath was to protect, not to kill."
The following memory was that of chains and blood.
Elias rejected the memory and pressed deeper into the forest. The trees were becoming more and more twisted and their branches looked like the bones of some giant. He saw a movement in the far off woods – a faint red light that rhythmically brightened and darkened behind the tree trunks. He slowed and crouched down.
There was a circle of stones on the ground, old and very worn. In the middle of the circle was a small fire, it didn't seem natural as it was very steady, like the beating of a heart made of coal. He came closer, both attracted and afraid. The stones had been carved with markings and they were glowing a little, the same sign that was on his chest.
The thing on his body that made him different, responded.
He was hurt really badly. A very strong pain ran through his body. In the end, he was forced to fall down on one knee. The fire in the circle became bigger, the part of the fire that went upwards looked more like a tongue. Then a voice, very quiet and close, came to the clearing.
"You have our mark, one who has fallen."
Elias got up, angry and determined. "Come out."
The fog hid the figure that was coming towards them. The person was wearing a cloak, and under the hood of the bone-white cloth the face was hidden. The voice was that of neither a man nor a woman. "You ran away from the fire that was meant to purify. Not many people can."
"I was never the one to need purifying."
"But you are still on fire with their gift."
Elias moved a step forward. "Who are you?"
"A shadow. A watcher. The first one who had the mark before the Faith changed it. You are the one that was once the closest, now the most far off."
Elias looked at the person carefully. "You act like you are sorry for me."
"I am as one who sees and recognises. The mark doesn't give power to gods. It eats them."
Before Elias could utter a word, the sound of a horn could be heard from afar — the Inquisition's call.
The watcher's head moved in a different angle. "The hunters are after you. The mark will be testing you at this time."
The fire was no more than a pile of ashes on the ground. The person had left. There was only silence and the faint sound of Elias's heartbeat left in the place.
Elias was coming out of the forest and he was looking toward the place where the noise of the horses could be heard.
The first rider came tearing through the trees, torch in hand. Elias moved faster than the rider could catch sight of him. His sword gleamed with the fire's light as his stroke went through the air. Just one slash — simple, silent. The rider went down without a shout.
More riders came. The forest was now filled with cries of help and the sound of sword fighting. Elias fought like a madman and not a single thought passed through his head, his body seemed to be controlled by some force outside of his will. He struck with perfect accuracy every time. The mark heated with every blow, quicker, fiercer.
Suddenly the atmosphere changed. There was a fire where his sword touched the air. The fire then went and stuck to his hands, engulfing his arms in light. The following man's howl was caused by the fire that infected him. It spread too quickly — too eagerly.
Elias was so shocked that he dropped his sword. The fire, however, did not stop. It seemed like it was begging for more.
"Stop," he whispered but the mark shone even more brightly. The fire glided over the ground eating up the fallen, and it was not spared branches, bark, or armor that it devoured.
After a while, he was able to get his senses back, the ground was still ablaze.
Only one person was left alive — Sister Aveline. As a result of the fall she took from her horse, she was now looking up at him, her face warm with the heat and in shock.
Elias came closer. "It's better if you flee."
She looked at the bodies for a moment and then at him. "You were one of us."
"I was indeed," he confirmed. "Until your Church decided to throw away the concept of mercy."
Her finger was pointing down when she said this, quaking in fear. "They won't give up. Even at this moment, there are more. You think that you are fighting men — actually, you are fighting Heaven."
He put the sword away. "Then Heaven will have to suffer like the rest of us."
Aveline caught sight of the mark burning on his torn shirt — a blood-red sign in the shape of a flame with an eye in the middle. Her voice was a whisper. "That sign… the Clergy said it was the fire of purity."
"Purity?" He looked down at his hands. The skin there was smoking slightly. "I'm afraid it's hunger."
Step backward, Aveline then made a turn and disappeared among the trees. He let her go
Quietness returned to the forest and so did Elias' energy. The mark was still aching though it had dimmed. The words of the watcher kept coming to his thoughts: It is not the servant of gods. It devours them.
Hours later.
Daren got to the area that had been set on fire by nightfall. His men got off the horses quietly. It was an unbearably heavy silence. The air still smelled of ash and death.
He went to the body lying on the ground which was charred beyond recognition. The victim has blade wounds and the cuts were very accurate. The fire - definitely not a normal one.
He got up with no hurry. "No doubt he has learnt to use it."
Someone behind him challenged the statement. "Or it is still the master of him."
Sister Aveline moved closer with her face ashen. Her robes were ripped and her eyes were red with smoke.
Daren looked at her. "You saw him?"
She affirmed. "He was a superhuman in the fight. He commanded fire. Then he let it consume everything. He tried to stop it."
"I don't buy that," Daren said. "The ones who are cursed always pretend that they are sorry after doing evil."
Aveline looked him straight in the eye. "You weren't there."
"No," Daren replied he was not convinced. He drew his sword and jammed it into the earth. "Nevertheless, I will be there next time."
He turned his face towards the east, where the fog was lifting from the valley. "We will be on the hunt until the very face of the world is changed by fire."
Elias kept walking till the sun was almost bleeding from the sky. The thicket became less dense. Eventually, the trees turned into fields, marred from ancient wars. Though his legs were shaking and his chest was on fire, he still went on.
Every step seemed heavier this time — not because he was hurt, but because of what he had done.
At a stream, he stopped again. The reflection staring back was no longer his own. His eyes were shining with a faint red light in the night water. The mark was spreading wider on his ribs, its edges moving like veins of lava along his skin.
He brought his fists together hard. "I will not be your vessel."
The voice whispered once more, barely audible but still very clear. You already are.
He hit the water very hard, thus dividing the mirror. After that, he got up and headed east.
Smoke was going up from the forest after him. The road lay ahead leading to the valleys of the old Faith — hamlets left behind after the holy wars, the ruins that neither side had touched.
He wanted time and control.
However, there were watchers too in the shadows of the hills. A person wearing a gray cloak — not one of the Faith, nor of the damned — was trailing him with calm and slow patience.
By the time the night was here, Elias could take refuge in an old abandoned chapel. There was a lot of damage to the roof, a large scorch mark on the altar. Men once prayed here to the Flame of Dawn. Now only ashes remained.
He made no fire. The mark's heat was sufficient.
While he was resting, fatigue was dragging him down to sleep. But sleep brought up, among other things, the dreams of burning towers, smoke-covered wings, a woman under the sky that was shattered. Her eyes looked like mirrors, and in them, he could see both mercy and wrath.
When he got his wake, dawn was coming through the cracks in the wall. The mark pulsed once — very weakly, as if it was listening.
He talked to the vacant chapel, "Then come. Let all the gods see what their fire made."
On the next day, he went out with the same purpose.