Night lay heavy upon the high ridge where the priest and the boy had made their camp. Wind scraped across the graphite stone, carrying the bitter scent of cinder and rust. In the distance-low in the canyon's throat-Rifts Scar burned like a fever. A jagged scar of flickering light in a world that knew only dimness. The city resembled a cavern set aflame, built into the very bones of the planet itself. Lights flickered from the mouths of broken towers and scaffolded steel skeletons. The distant sound of engines echoed faintly as it flowed from below with the wind, like the growl of a slumbering beast. It was more a cage than a city, and a profound cage at that. It was the only city on MelasOon constructed for labor-from this distance, it appeared deceased, the mine city rooting itself deep into the planet. Ten million slaves were chained there, or so the boy had heard repeatedly; the guards uttered those words with a sickening pride. How many men and women had died there, like his mother had, and those were the fortunate ones. The pretty young women who worked in the dim lights were the unfortunate; they did not live long, their existence a cycle of forced smiles, broken bones, and bruised skin. Most of them perished because they wished to, and the boy's sister... he wasn't even certain she was still alive.
"From this distance, no heat from the fire will reach you," the priest observed. The boy was sitting closer to the far-off city lights than to the priest and his flame. The cold was itching at his bones, but he did not dare approach.
"I don't bite," the priest scoffed, a smirk visible even behind his mask of steel. They had spoken little since leaving the burning ship behind, maintaining a distance where their voices would not reach one another.
"I'm fine," said the boy in a low voice.
"And that is why you are shaking," the priest replied as he searched his baggage for something that seemed elusive.
"You are shaking so violently you might break, boy. Come closer. Let me see your face in the light," the priest asserted, his words both commanding and concerned.
"I said I'm fine," the boy replied, his voice far less certain than he was.
The priest approached the boy with slow steps. He smelled different than before, the boy thought, something new yet familiar-a pungent scent the boy could trace to his right hand. Perhaps he had found what he had been searching for, the boy reasoned. The boy did not run or even move as the priest approached; this was the limit of his endurance against the cold. Any further and he would break, just as the priest had said he would.
The priest hunkered down near the boy, gazed at him, and then undid his mask. The boy tilted his head toward the ground, averting his gaze before he could see the face hidden behind the mask, though it required little effort to meet the priest's unyielding stare.
"Look at me. At my face. I am human, and a benevolent one at that," the priest said with a warm voice, a voice that reminded the boy of Jaro and his father. But he was sure this was a monster, as his mother had told him. The smile was human, and the eyes were human, and his teeth were human too, but the face... he hadn't seen it. He wasn't sure.
He sneaked a glimpse from the corner of his eye. There was little light, as the priest stood shadowed against the fire, but his face was clear. It was human. It looked like a kind human's face-a perfect, somewhat womanly face for a man, a face he could trust. His eyes were black with a hint of green hidden deep within, his skin a light olive coloring that faded into a white background.
"You see? Nothing to fear. If I will not bite you now, I will not bite you near the fire either. Come with me, child. Warm yourself," the priest uttered in an assuring tone as he lifted the boy by the shoulders and walked him to the edge of the blazing flame before placing him there. The boy did little to resist. What part of this man was a monster? He could not determine , but some part must be; he had never known his mother to be a liar.
The boy sat near the fire, but his eyes were fixed on the city, Rifts Scar. Slaves called it Rifts Scar, and slavers, Scar's Rift. Layer after layer, it bored into the planet. It was once a mine; it was still a mine in its deepest levels. The Rifts, the cracks that scarred the planet's skin, all started from there. Those Rifts were mines too, in a time the boy well knew, since he had walked inside them and had seen the familiar carvings of pickaxes and shovels that had shaped them.
"You are fixed on that hole," said the priest. The boy did not care to look at him; he was mesmerized by the cracks that seemed to be clawed by the hand of some buried God. It was hard for him to believe that boys like him were the ones who had opened those wounds; after all, he was too weak to do so, and with chains toiling their little hands.
"It's a big hole. The biggest hole I have ever seen, and I've seen many holes," the priest said as he followed the boy's eyes to the city.
"What do you want?" the boy asked, his words echoing with sadness and mistrust.
"What do I want? I don't want anything. Why should I want something?" the priest replied.
"Everyone wants something. What are you doing here? Why are you here?" the boy queried persistently as he straightened his face and stared at the priest.
"Easy, Mr. Spy. Is there anywhere else I must be?"
The priest smirked as he salted the meat strips and skewered them on a metallic rod. The boy now could identify the scent from before; it was meat. It looked too red to be chicken. After so many years of bland, hard bread, chicken was all he wished to eat-the way Ruk talked about it: succulent and salty, mild, soft, and tender. Ruk had even devised recipes from his chains that he often recounted in chicken's absence, although he had never gotten the chance to test them. Ruk was as enthused about chicken as Jaro was about freedom from his chains. This meat was no chicken, but at least it wasn't bread either, and the scent became sharper as the priest placed it in the fire, giving it a thorough roast.
"That's where you are going, Rift's Scar, right?" the boy asked as he wiped the water dripping from his mouth with his new jacket's sleeve. The jacket was too big for him, as were the boots and the pants, which had an indigo hue. Unlike his old clothes, which were well-accustomed to ash, these left no black mark or bitter taste on his dripping lips.
"Why should I go anywhere?" the priest asked as he rotated the skewer in the fire.
"Everyone goes somewhere, wants something," the boy answered, staring with all his might at the dancing stick that floated in the flames.
"Is it something you want that makes you ask these questions about wanting and going? Perhaps it is you who wishes to go there?" the priest said, drinking a sip from the silvery flask he carried in his pocket.
"Why should I want anything?" the boy shrugged in dismissal as he warmed his hands in the fire's light.
"Everybody wants something; you said it yourself, right?" The boy looked back at the city. He was still in awe of being free and alive; he had little time to think of what he wanted. He had no time to want anything at all.
"You've been there, right? The city, the hole?" the priest asked the boy.
He gave the priest a simple nod without facing his stare.
"Bad memories, ha?" the priest questioned.
He couldn't forget his mother's last stare-a dead stare with no smile, frown, or emotion. She wasn't like that when they were free, when he lived in green fields under tall trees that shadowed their house on top of the hill, beside the mountain stream that passed nearby, which he often visited on his way home from school. He himself used to smile back then, but now all those smiles were gone. They had left with his mother, or perhaps even before, the boy thought. Maybe that is what he wanted: he wanted to smile, not a forced or fake smile, but a real one, a happy one.
"I lost my mother there." The boy's voice was too low to carry far.
"I have lost everything.There is nothing left for me to find," the boy added.
"Did you see your mother's death?" the priest asked as he placed his mask near his own feet.
"I only saw her face when it was too late. When they brought her out... eyes open, but not shining anymore."
The priest turned toward him, the firelight catching one of his mask's golden horns, which leaned against his leg.
"Have you been in the mines?"
The boy shook his head.
"So you can take me to that city," the priest said while checking the meat roasting in the fire.
"If you want to go there, you can follow the cracks," the boy uttered.
"What if I follow the wrong cracks?" the priest asked.
"There are no wrong cracks. They all go there, to the city. Like a river, they twist and turn, merge and spread, but they all have the same end," the boy said, recalling words Jaro had told him.
The priest sat back and took a glimpse at his mask before gazing at the boy again.
"How do you know of Myther?"
The boy hesitated, then recited the only words he ever remembered tied to that name.
"Be kind to all... and all will be kind to you."
The priest studied the boy, his voice smooth as worn stone. "Who taught you that chant?"
"My mother," the boy said.
A slow smile crept across the priest's lips. "Ah. So she has spoken of us."
"Yes." The boy's fingers knotted together. "She said you never forgive. That you never forget. That when you give, you always take something back."
The priest tilted his head. "What else?"
The boy swallowed. "She said you're bad people. That you kill instead of heal."
Silence pooled between them. Then the priest gestured, as if brushing dust from the air. "Go on."
"She said-" The boy's voice dropped to a whisper, "-you eat the flesh of children."
The priest laughed-a sound like dry sticks breaking. "Now that is a lie. I have never tasted a child's meat. Nor do I know any who have."
The boy's eyes widened. "Then... you do eat human flesh?"
"No!" The priest recoiled, then caught himself, amused. "We eat what all men eat: beasts, plants, spices. Though..." He paused, stroking his chin. "I have eaten a baby goat."
The boy went very still. "Isn't a baby goat... a child?"
The priest waved a hand. "Many eat young goats. It is not sacred to my faith."
"But shouldn't your faith forbid it?"
For the first time, the priest hesitated. "A sharp question," he murmured. "One I cannot answer."
A pause. The priest turned back to the fire, then spoke low.
"To be kind to all and have them be kind to you. Your mother must have lived by those words." He lifted a piece of meat from the fire, smoke curling from its crisped edges. "And were the slavers kind to you? To her? To your sister?"
The boy flinched. He hadn't spoken of his sister. Not once. Not aloud. His lips parted, but no words came-just a soundless breath as the wind whispered between them.
The priest turned to the boy, his voice measured yet piercing. "What shall become of those who enslaved you, who murdered your father, who cast your mother into the abyss to perish? Those who made you an orphan-can you forgive them without a second thought?"
The boy hesitated, then answered, "I desire justice, not vengeance."
"And what is the difference?" the priest pressed.
"Justice is fair," the boy replied. "Vengeance is not."
The priest considered this before responding, "If a murderer is hanged-whether by the grieving family of his victims or by a hangman acting under the law-what difference does it make to the dead? The rope still tightens. The life is still taken."
"But the law must judge him," the boy insisted.
"And who enforces this law of yours?" the priest challenged.
"The people," the boy declared.
"The people here are slaves," the priest countered, his voice edged with sorrow. "They cannot even break their own chains, yet you expect them to drag Kenta to his grave?" He leaned closer, his gaze unyielding. "If I were to slay Kenta tonight, would you mourn him?"
"Who is Kenta?"the boy asked with wondering eyes.
"He is the man who owns everyone here,"the priest answered in a firm voice.
The boy thought, then whispered, "No. But he must have loved ones who would."
"Perhaps," the priest conceded. "Yet he is a man devoid of love. Should he die, all of MelasOon would rejoice-even his own soldiers. A handful might weep at his grave, but if a man has harmed a hundred souls, and his death brings a hundred sighs of relief-is it truly wrong? Do tyrants, slavers, and creatures of such foul evil even deserve the right to live?"
The boy had no answer. The truth within him was clear-no, they do not. They had no right to breathe, to see, to feel. It was the answer the priest sought, the answer the boy himself wished to deny.
The priest, unmoved, reached out. His gloved hand extended toward the boy's shackles. At the moment of contact, they hissed-a faint, flickering shimmer as something metallic swarmed in silence through the metal like ants made of dust, ash, and steel. In seconds, the chains shattered like glass struck by lightning, falling into dust. The priest didn't speak of it. With his other hand, he offered the boy the cooked meat-wordless, casual, as though he hadn't just unmade years of bondage with a gesture.
The boy took it slowly, staring-not at the food, but at the priest.
The boy chewed in silence, the taste of meat foreign after so many years of bland sustenance and ash. Across the fire, the priest sat still. The boy couldn't help but look at him. His face was not monstrous, inhuman, or divine; it was the face of a man, a simple man with features that much resembled a woman's.
"To be kind to some is to be cruel to all others, and to be cruel to them is a kindness to the rest." His voice was stronger now, clearer, as though unmasking gave it weight. "This world must be cleansed of all evil before one can afford to be kind just for the sake of kindness." He took a piece of meat himself, eating without hesitation. "There are two Mythers. One you know." He looked up-one eye burning red, the other gold like dusk. "Myther. The kind God of kindness. Of shared fate. And Myter-God of change, of justice, of oaths that will never break. The guardian, the unifier of men."
The boy's eyes widened. The priest continued, voice calm, unwavering.
"Your Myther... and mine... are different. But they are the same." He leaned forward just slightly, the fire catching the sharp edges of his mask's golden rays. "For Myther is Myter. The light and its shadow, dancing in unison, separated by a fine line." He paused. "So whom do you wish to serve? Myther? Or Myter?"
"But you said they are one," the boy pressed.
"Yes," the priest replied. "They are the same."
A slow, knowing smile curled on the priest's lips. "Sharp thinking, boy. But I do not ask you to choose one god over his self. What I ask is... how will you serve Him?"
The boy frowned. "Why? If God is almighty, can He not do as He pleases? Why does He need our service?"
"A fair question," the priest conceded. "But we are not mere servants. We are part of Him. In truth, when we serve God, we serve ourselves. How will you serve yourself? That is what I ask."
"How can we be part of God?"the boy challenged.
"How can your eye know it is part of you?" the priest asked, his voice smooth as oiled leather. "It understands only its own function-to see. It has no knowledge of the whole that is you."
The boy frowned, his fingers tightening around the hem of his tunic. "But I eat. I think. I walk. My eye does none of these things."
A knowing smile curled at the edges of the priest's lips. "Your eye might say the same of the cells that compose it."
The fire cracked.
In that fragile space between question and answer, the boy felt the weight of a world settle on the breath between two names.
The priest finished his meal, tearing through the tough meat with a focus that seemed almost ritualistic, as if each bite carried hidden meaning. He didn't look up as he chewed.
"Eat up," the priest said softly, his voice low and heavy. "We move at dawn."
The boy glanced at the half-eaten meat in his hand, but he had little appetite. His mind churned with confusion-questions about Myther, Myter, and the fate of his mother clouded his thoughts. Still, he obeyed, forcing himself to bite and chew. The meat tasted bitter, but not as bitter as the doubts swirling inside him.
The priest moved methodically as he cleaned up the fire, tossing the last of the coals onto the embers. The flames crackled and hissed, casting long, restless shadows on the canyon walls.
For a long time, the only sounds were the fire and the distant howls of unseen creatures roaming the canyon-then came the eerie, broken screams that echoed from the city of Rifts Scar in the distance.
The boy's gaze drifted to the priest, curiosity gnawing at him.
"Why do you stay awake?"he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The screams from the city seemed to grow louder, closer, filling the night with the raw sound of suffering and the dread that came with it.
The priest remained still, his gaze fixed on the fire. For a moment, there was only silence. Then he spoke, his voice cold and distant.
"The night is not safe here. The city is filled with noise. No one sleeps peacefully in Rifts Scar. The echoes of the damned reach into every corner. But it is not just the beasts. It is the soldiers... they know how to make things suffer."
The priest breathed deeply, but his posture remained unchanged.
The night wore on, thick with sorrow, the lights of Rift's Scar burning invisible wounds into the darkness.
"Sleep," the priest commanded softly. "Tomorrow, your journey begins anew."
The boy hesitated, but the priest's voice left no room for argument.
Slowly,he lay down beside the dead fire, pulling his cloak tighter around his small frame. The air was cold, but the dead fire's lingering warmth shielded him from the worst of it.
His eyes fluttered shut,but true sleep would not come.
The cries of the city haunted his thoughts,and fear twisted in his chest at what awaited them in that cursed place.
Worse still, he wondered what kind of man he would become if he continued to follow this priest-a follower of Karina's Myterism, a man who saw vengeance not as sin, but as a solution for salvation.
What was left of the fire crackled once more before the night swallowed the sound completely, leaving the boy to drift into a restless, uneasy slumber.