The priest was already awake—a silent sentinel in the predawn hush.
The boy, however, lay deep in slumber, his breaths slow and heavy, as if he had surrendered to a sleep from which he might never emerge. Yet even in the depths of his rest, he sensed the sun's creeping advance—its hesitant fingers brushing his skin with the faintest whisper of warmth.
It stirred something within him: a quiet insistence, a reluctant pull toward wakefulness. He knew, then, that the time had come to yield. To rise. To face the dawn.
His eyelids trembled, resisting the light. A part of him clung to the dark, fearing that the day would unravel the fragile hope that had woven itself through his dreams. What if last night had been nothing but a cruel illusion? What if, when he opened his eyes, he would still hear the heavy thud of boots outside the shed, the barked orders, the clank of chains? He would be dragged out again, shovel in blistered hands, to dig and dig until his bones ached, until his spirit frayed—another day in the unending grind of servitude.
But what if it had been real? What then?
The thought was almost more terrifying. If he was no longer a slave, then what was he? A free man? The word felt foreign—weightless, like a name he had never learned to answer to. Freedom was a vast and shapeless thing, and he did not know how to wear it. Would it swallow him whole? Would it abandon him? Or would it, too, demand something from him—something he did not yet understand?
His breath hitched. The warmth on his skin was real. The silence—no boots, no shouts—was real.
Slowly, with the dread and wonder of a man stepping onto untested ice, he opened his eyes.
The boy stirred beneath the crimson dawn, beneath a sky torn between fire and ash. By the dim glow of a dying coal flame, the priest crouched beside him—already packed, already murmuring to himself in low, rhythmic tones.
"May Karina's ever-controlling hand guide me," he heard the priest murmur, in a voice so hauntingly similar to the way his mother once prayed.
The boy noticed a light blanket wrapped around him. When he had drifted into sleep, there had been no blanket at all. Was this priest of Myter—this strange creature who looked too human to be divine—so kind as to think I might dream of a warmer slumber? he wondered as he pulled the blanket away.
"We must go," the priest said as the boy rubbed sleep from his eyes. "The closer we come to Rift's Scar, the longer the night stretches behind us. If we move quickly enough... perhaps we won't have to meet it face-to-face."
The boy yawned and began to fold the blanket.
"Leave it," the priest said. "I'll take care of it. Drink some of the morning frost I melted on the fire. We carry water only in our stomachs."
The boy looked toward the makeshift fireplace. A small cauldron sat above the embers—another thing that hadn't been there when he closed his eyes the night before. He picked up a small cup from the ground, dipped it into the cauldron, and lifted it to his lips. The scent was unlike that of plain water—herbal, sharp, and spicy. He took a sip out of curiosity rather than thirst.
It was hot—hotter than anything he had tasted on his homeworld. The liquid carried warmth and sweetness, edged with a bite of spice. He knew well that the flavor came from more than simple ash.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Just some ginger tea. Keeps the sleep off your eyes," the priest said as he folded the thin blanket and placed it inside his bag.
The boy liked the tea almost as much as he disliked it. It was unfamiliar. He had long been used to taking his water from raw frost, melted only by the heat of his tongue. The tea's flavor reminded him faintly of the wood of his home. He drank it in a single gulp that burned his throat, yet even that pain carried a strange comfort. With that warmth, he felt he could almost breathe—clean air, free of ash or dust. Then he poured himself another cup.
The priest approached the cauldron and placed his hand on its rim. At once, the metal stirred—flowing like liquid ash toward his sleeve, creeping beneath the fabric and vanishing from sight. The boy stared. It moved like the metal that had broken his chains the night before. Then, he had thought the particles the size of insects; now he saw they were smaller than grains of ash. What were they? Metal? Alive? Or merely tools? Whatever they were, he thought, they were useful toys.
He sipped the last of his tea slowly, his final mouthfuls quickening as the liquid cooled.
For a long while, they walked in silence. Then the boy spoke, his voice rough from the morning chill.
"What's the difference between Mytherism and Myterism?" he asked, handing the priest the empty cup.
The priest did not break stride. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, like a half-remembered hymn.
"They are two answers to the same inquiry," he said. "Both seek to conduct human fate, though by different means."
"What inquiry?" the boy pressed, rubbing his hands together.
"Verbatim," the priest replied without looking back, his steps measured and sure.
"What is Verbatim?" the boy asked, eyes wide.
"Verbatim is the current state of the world—the balance between good and vile. Simply put, it means that every action carries its reaction."
"What does that mean?" the boy asked eagerly.
The priest glanced at him, the faintest trace of a smile hidden in his beard.
"It means that when one man commits a good deed, another will follow him, and another will follow that one. Thus Verbatim tilts toward good. The same, of course, can be said of evil." He exhaled, a heavy, weary sound.
"How?"
The boy asked relentlessly, undeterred by the priest's cold tone.
"Imagine you live in a city plagued by famine," the priest began. "You must eat less so everyone can eat. Now, if you were to steal food to have more, someone who has less because of your greed would turn to stealing as well. That chain of actions would lead to disaster." His voice was calmer now, steadier.
"So my actions would make others do the same?" the boy asked, wide-eyed with wonder.
"Not quite," the priest replied, scanning the horizon. "Every deed causes another. Your actions affect you—and everything else—just as all things affect you. But the deeds we commit seldom end as we wish or expect."
The boy frowned. "But didn't you just say good deeds cause good to spread, and evil brings more evil?"
"Yes, marginally," the priest said. "But the effects we set in motion are shaped by others' choices. Using our earlier example: when you steal what everyone needs, most will turn to evil… but a few will work harder to seed good." He reached into his pocket, his eyes still distant.
"Why would they do that?" the boy asked.
The priest drew out a folded piece of paper, its top-right corner torn. "Why would anyone do anything? Why not do what you can, if you please to do it?" he said as he carefully unfolded it.
"But why should someone do good when everyone else is selfish and cruel?" the boy asked, watching the priest's fingers trace lines on the map as his gaze flicked between it and the faraway landscape.
"Not everyone is selfish or cruel," the priest answered. "Just as not everyone is good. In truth, no one is purely either. We are all something in between. In famine and hardship, vile beings twist others' compassion to their gain. Yet show enough good, and even they might change. And those who help others in darkness may one day stop, once they see the dark for what it is—an endless pit. There is no bowl that can hold an ocean, and no light that outlasts the dark."
He folded the map back into his pocket. The wind rose, swallowing his words for a moment.
"So what is the difference between Mytherism and Myterism?" the boy pressed.
The priest halted. Dust curled around his worn boots. "Mytherism uses weapons of compassion—kindness, mercy—trying to fill the bowls," he said. "But in Myterism, we are free to use other means to spread good."
"What other means?" the boy asked.
"Swords. Guns. Soldiers. The usual weapons." A blade's edge crept into his tone. "If a Mytherist met Kenta, he would beg himself to death, hoping the slaver might free his captives. If one of us met him—Kenta would find steel between his ribs."
"But you said we should help people!" the boy exclaimed.
"Some people cannot be helped," the priest replied firmly.
"But you said there is no bowl that can hold an ocean!" the boy argued.
"True," the priest said, resuming his pace. "But there are so many bowls—and so little time." His gaze swept across the empty horizon, searching for something just beyond sight.
"So now you won't even try to help others?" the boy called after him, hurrying to keep up.
"We save those who deserve and desire to be saved," the priest said, his tone flat but deliberate. "We fill the bowls that take little and break the ones that demand too much. No one can help someone who cannot be helped."
"To kill? To refuse to help—is that not evil?" the boy gasped, nearly jogging to match his stride.
"No," the priest said without turning. "They are acts of necessity. When vile people die, vile deeds die with them."
"But those actions would cause more evil—by your own logic!"
The priest stopped abruptly. A thin smile cut across his face—sharp as a whetstone.
"Killing Kenta—or men like him—is a positive outcome. He butchers hundreds of thousands each year on this planet alone. One life for a thousand?" He began walking again, his shadow stretching long and dark. "That is not evil," he said. "That is arithmetic."
The priest glanced back over his shoulder, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as if a sharp thought had pierced his mind.
"Tell me, boy... do you seek Myther's wisdom for itself? Or do you chase a shadow you once called mother, trying to know more of her?"
The boy stiffened. His hands curled unconsciously into fists.
"I know her," he said, voice tight.
The priest pressed—gentle, but relentless.
"Then why this hunger to know the old ways? To chase dead things?"
The boy's chest rose sharply. His answer burst out like a broken prayer.
"It doesn't matter whether I live or die—I will not embrace death. What matters is the effect my life or death has on the lives of others."
It was fierce, desperate—and wrong.
The priest gave a low, soft chuckle—not unkind.
"No, boy," he said. "It goes: Death can come for me at any moment, but I shall not embrace it. One day, as it does for all, death will find me. On that day, neither my life nor my death will hold meaning—only the impact they had on the living will matter."
The boy's lips pressed shut, the fire in him dimming, uncertain.
The priest's smile was thoughtful, not mocking.
"You speak with the sharpness of the wounded," he said. "You carry your pain like a torch—and you walk on it. That's wrong. Fire burns, and burning is not good. You can't be alive while you're burning."
He stopped, letting the harsh wind roar between them.
"You never told me your name."
The boy narrowed his eyes, the sting of the priest's words still fresh. He wanted to get back at him.
"Like you don't already know," he muttered.
The priest let out a soft laugh, stepping over a fractured ridge in the path.
"Come on, Peter... your mother wouldn't like you being this angry. Neither would Myther. And if your mother could hear you now, she'd be disappointed."
Peter froze.
"You behave much like a follower of Karina," the priest continued. "A worshiper of Myter. Don't you know... we're heretics to your old folk?"
"So you do know my name," Peter said quietly.
"Aye," the priest replied. "It's a common name. Of a dead saint."
"A saint of Myther?" Peter asked, uncertain.
"No," the priest said, brushing dust from his cloak. "Of a now-dead religion. But they had their similarities... now that you've got me thinking about it."
Peter walked beside him in silence for a time before asking,
"Why was Peter a saint?"
"That I don't know for sure," the priest said, his tone pensive. "But I think... he gave gifts to children."
Peter frowned. "Why?"
The priest shrugged. "Because gifts make children happy. You know—books, toys, playthings." He looked at the boy. "Didn't you ever have a gift?"
"When I was ten... at my sister's birthday," Peter said softly, "when she turned seventeen. My father made her a wooden owl—from a dead tree that had fallen the spring before." He looked out toward the horizon, eyes unfocused. "I cried a lot. So he carved me a wooden horse." He smiled faintly. "That was not long before the slavers came."
The priest said nothing at first, but the sadness in the boy's breath filled the air between their steps. Then, quietly, he spoke.
"So, you're also a jealous man," he said with a smirk. "Not a Mytherist, then. You could never be an all-good man who never sins. Are you sure your mother didn't worship Myter in secret?"
Peter laughed—briefly. It didn't last. A flicker passed through him—fear, faint but sharp. A name slipped from his lips like a ghost.
"Mister... my sister Rain... if we find her... will you help me free her?"
The priest corrected him gently. "You mean, will you free my sister too?"
Peter looked up. "Will you?"
"Oh, Peter," the priest said, stopping for a breath. "You don't get something for nothing. That's the rule of this world. What will you give to have your sister back?"
The silence stretched between them. Then the boy said it—clear, certain.
"My soul."
The priest burst into laughter.
"Myter is no blood-sucking demon," he said. "She means to save people through change and control—not rob them of salvation."
Peter clenched his fists. "Then... what do you mean to do?"
The priest's gaze sharpened. "How about something you hold dear," he said, coldly deliberate. "Something your mother gave you. Your most precious possession."
Peter frowned. "What?"
"Your name," the priest said.
Peter stared. "What?"
The priest smirked. "But how do I know you won't trick me? Sell me your name and want it back the very next day?"
"I won't," Peter said quickly. "I promise."
The priest chuckled. "Peter, let me teach you a chant—never make a promise when you don't know if you can keep it." He leaned closer, firelight flickering in his eyes. "I'll go soft on you. After all, we're quite alike, aren't we? You give me your name for ten years. After that, if you want it back, you can have it."
Peter muttered, "We're nothing alike."
The priest grinned. "So what is it, then?"
"Do you promise to save my sister?"
"I do," the priest said. "If you give me your name."
Peter took a deep breath—perhaps the deepest he'd ever drawn.
"Fine," he said.
The priest straightened, a playful glint in his eye.
"Then you have no name, stranger. What should I call you?"
He studied the boy—a face dusted with ash, the scent of wood smoke still clinging to him from the days he'd lived beside his father, the woodcarver of fallen trees and toys.
"I've found one," the priest said at last. "From now until ten years pass... your name is Ashen."
"Ashen? Why Ashen?"
"As you can see, there is nothing here but ash," the priest said. "Names should reflect the world we live in."
"Can't you think of a better one?"
"Why so grumpy? Ashen has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
"I don't like it."
"Good. You're not supposed to like it," the priest said with a smirk.
"Why?" Ashen asked.
"Well, if you liked it, then there'd be no point in selling your name, would there?" the priest replied.
"I like—"
"What is this?" the boy said suddenly, eyes wide.
"What is what, Ashen?" the priest asked with a hint of a smile.
"I... I can't remember my name," Ashen whispered, fear creeping into his voice.
"What do you mean? Your name is Ashen. Remember?" the priest said.
"No. My real name."
"Your real name is Ashen—for the next ten years. Better get used to it."
"How can you do that?" Ashen asked, trembling.
"We made a deal, Ashen. A solid deal. No going back now."
Ashen realized then that the priest had begun moving again. He wasn't wearing his mask, and the daggers once hidden there were gone—but his name, his real name, was gone too.
"I know but—how can you know my name? My sister? How can you make me forget?"
"How and why—those are questions for philosophers," the priest said softly. "Let me tell you a story instead. It'll cheer you up."
"A story? About what?" Ashen asked.
"About the name you carry now."
The priest's tone shifted, solemn and distant.
"Not all ash is scorched and blackened—ashen and dull like what you see around us. There exists an ash born of myth—a luminous, celestial ember that drifts through legend. From its shimmering dust arise the phinox, creatures of radiant flame and eternal renewal, their wings woven from the essence of magic. Where this sacred ash falls, the air hums with the promise of rebirth, and the phinox take flight, trailing sparks of wonder in their wake."
"How does it look?" Ashen asked, eyes wide with wonder.
"It is a bird shining in eternal fire," the priest said.
"Are you imagining roasted chicken?" Ashen asked. The priest's description reminded him of Ruk's endless tales of roasted birds—minus the herbs and spices.
The priest laughed—harder this time. "The phinox isn't made of flesh. It's a creature of fire."
"A creature of fire?"
"Yes. It's made of fire, so fire cannot burn it." He smirked. "Are you imagining roasted chicken again, Ashen?"
"Yes," Ashen admitted, swallowing.
"Well," the priest said, his laughter echoing in the cold air, "I wanted you to find meaning in the phinox. But I suppose roasted chicken will suffice."
The priest stopped laughing—and stopped walking.
"What is it now?" Ashen asked, confused.
"We must go a different way," the priest said.
Ashen took a step forward, his foot sinking into the ash beneath him before striking something that sent a shiver up his spine—something firm, yet light. A bone. A child's bone. An entire skeletal frame, enclosed in ash. This was a mass grave—one of many that scarred the blackened fields.
The priest stepped aside, trying to skirt the boneyard ahead.
Ashen did not follow.
"Come, Ashen. You don't want to be poked by bones," the priest said, but heard no reply. When he turned, he saw Ashen's wet eyes staring at the pale remnants below.
"Do you know about Last Fire's Eve?" Ashen asked in a low voice.
Last Fire's Eve—the funeral rite Mytherists held for their dead. Ashen didn't know whether it was common to Myterism as well.
"It's a heretical rite," the priest said quietly. "Needs at least two persons to complete—and one full night to rest with the dead." He sighed. "There's no need to waste our time with the dead. Come."
"I want to do it," Ashen said. "I want to wait for them."
"It takes two people. Didn't you hear me the first time?" the priest replied, his tone turning cold.
"They are not evil," Ashen whispered. "What wrong can we do by filling their cup?"
"They are dead. Their cup is shattered. The city is half a day away—and there's roasted chicken there, remember? Roasted chicken, the kind you like."
The priest tried to tempt him with mockery, but Ashen stood still, unmoving.
"I am not. My cup is small—it doesn't take an ocean to fill it, just a sip of a night," Ashen murmured. "When my mother died, I couldn't do the ritual. If I don't do it now... I might not find another chance."
The priest let out a long, weary sigh—almost as deep as the one Ashen had taken when he traded away his name. This rite was as heretical to his faith as his faith was to the rite.
"Fine, fine," the priest muttered. "We'll rest with them. Do you know the chants?"
"Yes," Ashen said softly.
The priest stepped closer, brushing the dust from the boy's shoulder.
"What is light when life subsides?" the priest intoned aloud.
"All lasting smiles will end in sighs," Ashen replied, his voice trembling but clear.
"Their bones are shattered, their eyes are shut," said the priest.
"We cannot tell of what they thought," Ashen answered.
"Now we grieve these dead, these buried," the priest said, lifting his gaze to the red sun bleeding across the sky.
"Till this night ends, we'll not be hurried," Ashen spoke the final verse, his eyes following the priest's to the horizon.
The priest nodded. "Let's gather some coal, kid. It's going to be a long night."