As they forced him up the wooden steps, Filianus caught one last glimpse of his family.
Eleanor had broken free from their mother's grip and was pushing through the crowd, calling his name.
"Filianus! Filianus, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
Guards moved to intercept her, but she kept shouting.
"It's not your fault! None of this is your fault!"
'Oh, Eleanor.'
He wanted to tell her she was wrong. It was his fault, for existing. For awakening wrong. For being a walking contradiction in a world that demanded simplicity.
But maybe that was okay.
Maybe some things were worth being wrong about.
The executioner's assistant pushed him toward the stake in the center of the pyre. More chains. These ones attached to the wooden post.
The crowd was getting louder now, sensing the approaching climax.
Filianus closed his eyes and tried to find some peace in his final moments.
The scent of oil and kindling filled his nostrils. Someone was already lighting torches at the base of the platform.
'Any last words, heretic?' The executioner's voice was muffled by his hood.
Filianus opened his eyes and looked out at the crowd one more time.
His gaze found his family in their reserved section.
His father, still rigid but with something breaking behind his eyes.
His mother, finally looking up, tears visible even through her veil.
And Eleanor, held back by guards but still struggling, still calling his name.
'What do you say to the people you love when they're watching you die?'
"I forgive you," he called out, his voice carrying clearly across the square.
The crowd quieted, confused by the unexpected words.
"All of you. For this. For being afraid. For choosing safety over understanding."
He could see his father's composure finally cracking.
"I don't blame you for what you couldn't accept. I just hope someday you'll understand why it had to be this way."
The executioner nodded to his assistant.
A torch touched the oil-soaked kindling.
Fire bloomed around the base of the pyre like deadly flowers.
'This is it.'
The heat reached him quickly, climbing up the wooden platform toward his feet.
Smoke filled his lungs, making him cough.
'Any regrets?'
Actually, yes. Several.
He regretted not telling Eleanor how proud he was of her courage.
He regretted not thanking his parents for sixteen years of love, even if it ended like this.
He regretted not kissing that pretty baker's daughter who'd always smiled at him in the market.
'Mostly, though, I regret that ceiling fan.'
The flames reached his boots.
Pain lanced up his legs, sharp and immediate.
'Okay. Not funny anymore.'
He gritted his teeth and tried not to scream.
The crowd was cheering now, bloodlust overriding sympathy.
But through the roar of flames and voices, he could still hear one clear sound.
Eleanor, screaming his name.
Shuuu!
The fire climbed higher.
Pain consumed everything.
His vision began to darken at the edges.
'Is this how it ends? Is this how every story ends?'
The world faded to black.
And in that darkness, something impossible happened.
A voice spoke.
-----
"Well, well. What have we here?"
The pain was gone.
The fire was gone.
Filianus found himself standing in… nothing. Absolute void stretched in every direction, broken only by a figure materializing before him.
'What the hell?'
The stranger was tall and elegant, wearing clothes that seemed to shift between medieval robes and modern business attire depending on how the light hit them.
Their face was androgynously beautiful, with features that suggested both ancient wisdom and eternal youth.
Their eyes, though—their eyes held depths that made looking directly at them uncomfortable.
"You died well," the figure said conversationally. "Most people scream more."
"Am I…" Filianus looked around at the endless void. "Is this the afterlife? Because it's a lot less clouds and harps than advertised."
"This is the between-space," the figure replied with amusement. "A place where deals can be made."
'Deals?'
"I have a proposition for you, young heretic."
"I'm listening." What else could he do?
The figure smiled, and somehow that expression was both beautiful and terrifying.
"Return to life. Take another chance. But this time, with purpose."
"What kind of purpose?"
"The kind that changes everything." The figure began pacing around him, their footsteps making no sound in the void. "You see, your dual awakening wasn't an accident. It was a sign. A crack in the natural order that certain… parties… would very much like to exploit."
Filianus felt a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who has been waiting a very long time for someone like you to appear." The figure stopped directly in front of him. "Someone who believes the current system of divine authority needs… revision."
'This sounds like trouble.'
"And if I say no?"
"Then you rest in peace, as you were meant to. No judgment, no punishment. Just… nothing."
The alternative to nothing was starting to sound ominous.
"What would I have to do?"
The figure's smile widened.
"Seven goddesses rule the spiritual realm of your world. Seven virgin goddesses, pure and untouchable, who maintain the divine order through their absolute righteousness."
'Where is this going?'
"Your task would be to… corrupt them."
Filianus blinked.
"Corrupt them how?"
"However you see fit. Seduce them. Convert them. Show them the beauty of imperfection." The figure waved a hand dismissively. "The methods are entirely up to you."
'This is definitely trouble.'
"And if I succeed?"
"Then the old order falls, and something new can take its place. Something more… flexible."
"And if I fail?"
"Then your soul becomes forfeit, and I collect what's owed."
Of course. There had to be a catch.
Filianus considered his options.
Option one: Accept peaceful oblivion and let someone else deal with whatever cosmic game was being played.
Option two: Take the deal, return to life, and somehow corrupt seven divine beings who were probably powerful enough to erase him from existence with a thought.
'Put like that, option one sounds pretty appealing.'
But then he thought about Eleanor's tears.
About his parents' broken expressions.
About dying for the crime of being different.
'The old order failed me. Maybe it's time for something new.'
"How long do I have?"
"Seven years. One year per goddess."
"And what do I get out of this? Besides the chance to damn my soul for eternity?"
The figure laughed—a sound like silver bells and breaking glass.
"Power, young heretic. Power beyond your current understanding. The ability to speak truths that reshape reality. The gift of making even the divine question their certainties."
They leaned closer, and Filianus could smell something like incense and ozone.
"You awakened both a Soul Weapon and a Soul Seed because you represent balance. The merger of opposing forces. I'm offering to make that merger… weaponizable."
'Weaponizable balance. That sounds either amazing or terrifying.'
"What kind of power, exactly?"
"The power to make anyone—anyone—hear the voice of their own desires. The ability to speak directly to the hidden parts of the soul that polite society pretends don't exist."
The figure straightened up, suddenly looking more business-like.
"But understand this—the power I'm offering will mark you. The holy will sense corruption in your presence. The corrupt will sense judgment. You'll walk a line between heaven and hell, belonging fully to neither."
'Story of my life. Or lives.'
"And the goddesses?"
"Will be the greatest challenge you've ever faced. Each one represents a different aspect of divine purity. Each one will test you in ways you can't imagine."
Filianus looked around at the endless void.
'Better than being dead, right?'
But something was nagging at him. Some detail that felt important.
"Why me? There have to be others with dual awakenings."
The figure's expression grew serious.
"Because of your mind. It is the most amazingly complex I have ever seen. Nothing short of a psychotic masterpiece. That execution actually created a resonance in your mind—a frequency that can touch even divine hearts. Well, it touched mine."
'A frequency.'
"Your pain, your forgiveness, your acceptance of an unjust fate—these things have power. They create cracks in absolute certainty."
The figure extended a hand that seemed to shimmer between flesh and starlight.
"So, Filianus Muckweed III, twice-born heretic—will you take my deal?"
Filianus stared at the offered hand.
Seven years to corrupt seven goddesses or forfeit his soul.
Power beyond understanding and enemies beyond counting.
A chance to change everything or damn himself trying.
'When you put it like that…'
He thought about Eleanor's tears one more time.
About his father's rigid pride and his mother's hidden sorrow.
About a world where being different was a death sentence.
'Maybe it's time to teach the world a new song. His own song.'
Filianus reached out and grasped the figure's hand.
"Deal."
The void exploded into blinding light.