“Though we are created from perfection, we are born from imperfection.

  Though always unworthy, we are never without worth. We have all stumbled, lost in the shadows, fearful and wishing to be found.

  So we hunt the light and let the flames guide our way. For in its radiance, we can burn away the darkness within. This, I believe in my heart to be true. Yet, it is also true that not all are redeemable.”

  The preacher was a wilted man, the few hairs on his head white like cotton.

  He was gesturing towards a wooden table behind him.

  “Some of us are too far gone. No longer lost in darkness but embracing the dark, forsaking the everlight. The holy fire brands those who shall not be forgiven with the flamesin.”

  Behind him was a table where two creatures resided. One man and one bird.

  The bird, the color of pitch and the size of an eagle, rested in a cage of blackened gold.

  The bird tilted its head once, then twice as it tried to perceive its surroundings.

  Its eyes, two blue gleaming dots, were a contrast to the pure twilight that otherwise covered the bird.

  They held a depth of reason to them.

  Beside the cage, the man who shared the table lay unconscious, blood seeping from a wound to the back of his head.

  He was a tall and muscular man, bearing a presence to him despite his inert condition.

  But what set him apart most was the blue markings.

  Running across his body, beneath a deeply tanned skin, were ever-shifting patterns of blue shapes, slowly making their silent dance.

  They appeared as clouds flowing, turning into ponds rippling, turning into roots burrowing.

  Big and small, leaving no limb bare.

  Diema had her hood drawn low over her face.

  Beneath it, she was the stark opposite of the man on the table.

  Her skin was a solid sickly pale, except for the hollows around her eyes that were dark and reaching.

  Even her eyes themselves were a solid black.

  No color lightened her visage.

  The sermon was a hazy hum in her ears, the preacher’s voice distant and unclear.

  Her hands shook, hell, her entire body did.

  It was not the speaker's muddied words that made her tremble.

  It was the man on the table.

  Simply being near him sent waves of sharp pain through her blood, like pushing knives in her veins.

  The priest continued his chanting.

  However, Diema could hear nothing but her own suffering.

  “Breathe, sister.” Hunth, her brother, whispered to her, cutting through the haze.

  He was in as much pain as she was, yet he bore it with far more grace than she did.

  And she couldn’t help but feel a sting of resentment for that.

  Diema glared at her brother before deciding she couldn’t stand the room any longer.

  She would perhaps get reprimanded later for not having attended every single second of this great accomplishment, a legend of the ages written into the books.

  But even putting legends into existence was unbearable when her blood moved like shards of glass through her body, and distance was the only true relief.

  Besides, Arch Ascendicar Longe was yet to arrive, and he would surely do enough preaching and sermonizing as is. She did not need to fill that cup anymore than necessary, especially when the metaphoric filling of said cup hurt like it did.

  Her limit was reached.

  She held her brother's gaze for a quick second, then sighed her defeat.

  On wobbly legs she rose and left through a door in the back.

  Diema stumbled through the once derelict keep they had occupied for the occasion.

  It was an old relic of some forgotten lineage, the only things left by its former masters were dusty stones and broken glass.

  Numerous abandoned and destroyed keeps in various states of decay spattered the coastline of the mainland.

  A testament to the continent’s unforgiving nature.

  This particular keep, however, had been entirely stripped of its furnishings before being abandoned, suggesting that maybe, just maybe, the legacy of its name still lived on somewhere.

  Looted was the other option, of course. Although, the nearest town of Pirone was hours away, which made that idea seem unlikely, as most people rarely left the safety of their cities' walls for long.

  A broken door, barely clinging to its rusted hinges, revealed a balcony with a half-collapsed railing encircling it.

  Diema reached out carefully, but at the slightest touch, the hinges couldn’t bear the burden any more, giving way and letting the door crash onto the stone floor in 3 pieces.

  She eyed the door for a brief moment before moving through the newly formed opening.

  The night air, still warm, gently brushed against her face.

  She sighed as the lingering ache slowly began to fade from her body, her fists unclenching as she breathed.

  Below her a small, overgrown courtyard, now a makeshift defensive position, lay in disarray.

  Workers moved in a hurried frenzy.

  They were unloading crates and bags from wagons, tearing them open, and placing supplies where instructed by the guards commanding them.

  Diema's gaze landed on a young man struggling to set up a mantlet facing the broken gate.

  Sweat was glistening on his forehead, making the moonlight dance across his skin.

  He was a servant, and like the rest of the servants who had been dragged out here, he looked terrified.

  The mainland was a dangerous place for many reasons, and leaving the city's walls was putting your life at risk.

  Even with the guards surrounding the keep, most people would not dare stay out in the open.

  A distant cry from some unseen creature in the rocky hills sent a ripple of tension through the courtyard.

  The servants all jumped.

  Diema let out a soft, mocking snicker.

  She wasn’t fond of the outdoors either, but she was comfortable enough that she at least was safe here, especially with one of the queen's famous paladins roaming the grounds.

  The servants were clearly not as convinced.

  She was already certain that all servants were a cowardly bunch, but this is just pathetic, she thought.

  Though, he does look delicious.

  She let her eyes wander along the body of the servant.

  She could see his muscles tense beneath his honeyed skin, the damp fabric of his shirt clinging tightly as he bent down, lifting the wooden cover, then bracing it with a sturdy log.

  She could envision how his veins popped with the strain.

  Diema let her tongue roll over her teeth.

  Someone cleared their throat right behind her, making her jump.

  “Oh, I'm sorry me lady, did I startle you?” a familiar, dry voice asked.

  She turned towards the source.

  Stelych. Hers and her brother's personal steward.

  Stelych was a peculiar man. He had a bent back, the consequence of an accident involving horses from his youth, leaving him in pain more often than not.

  But he always bore a smile on his lips, and he had a way of making Diema laugh.

  This was not one of those times, however.

  Diema glared down at the man.

  Patience had never been her strong suit, and the night’s ceaseless anguish had bled her dry of what little she possessed.

  She made ready to shred the small man apart when his hoarse voice broke the silence.

  “Oh, I see I did. Shall I fetch a whip to mark this indiscretion?" he suggested with a flat tone.

  “Or maybe the horses can trample me flat instead. They’ve never hidden their loathing much.”

  At that, she let out a sigh as the fury inside her cooled.

  “And rob me of the pleasure? No, the whip sounds far more riveting.” she said, her teeth showing in a smile.

  “As you wish, me lady.” Stelych answered, still dry as stone.

  “Besides, the horses don’t loathe you. They sense your fear, and it unsettles them. They are a most sensitive breed.” Diema added.

  Stelych rolled his shoulder back, the joints responding with a loud crack.

  “Oh, are they now?” He asked, now with a bucket full of sarcasm in his tone.

  “You know what I enjoyed most about my time working with them?” he continued.

  Diema raised an eyebrow, shaking her head.

  “Their meat.”

  Stelych’s smile grew even wider, baring his teeth, not hiding the fact that he clearly thought himself very funny.

  And so did Diema, as she couldn’t contain a snort of laughter.

  He then cleared his throat before continuing.

  “Well, I wish to congratulate you and your brother again, me lady. Today was a big day. A great day. The weeks you spent--”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Diema cut him off.

  “Didn’t I tell you I felt something? Didn’t I insist there was some unholy force clawing at us?”

  “You did, me lady.” Stelych confirmed before she pressed on.

  “Didn’t we tell everyone? We asked, you know, my brother and I. None of the other afflicted sensed anything, yet we always did.

  Then we find him, hiding in a cave like a filthy peasant. He didn't even try to fight back. Just accepted his demise on the spot.

  But maybe I would too if a paladin were coming for me.”

  Her lips cracked in a smile.

  “I’ve no doubt the queen will commend us greatly for this.” She said, pride infusing her words.

  “The rewards shall be great, I'm sure.” Stelych agreed.

  “And when she does reward you, please remember my crucial contributions.”

  “Your contribution?” She asked, her tone not hiding how absurd she thought the statement.

  “Oh indeed, the list of them is very long and heroic. Selfless and, if I dare say, lifesaving.

  For starters, if not for my never-ceasing vigil, you would not even be here, as you would have starved long ago.” He sneered as he produced an apple from inside his coat.

  “You should eat, me lady. And get some rest. Shall I inquire about a private room? I’m sure we can manage some sort of privacy in this place." He finished, the ever-present smile oh so wide.

  She was not particularly hungry for apples, and sleep was far from Diema's mind, being too exhilarated by them catching their quarry.

  She turned around and gazed cravingly at the young man down in the courtyard.

  They will do just fine one worker short, she convinced herself.

  “No apples, Stelych. I'm in the mood for a proper feast.” She smirked.

  Hunth glared at the preacher.

  Not that he knew this particular elder.

  But shifting the pain into hatred for the man was the only thing he could do in the moment to dull the ache, even if it barely made any difference.

  His sister had retired earlier, yet he felt compelled to endure a while longer.

  In her presence, he had to hide his agony, but now he allowed himself a subtle grimace beneath his hood, along with the daggers he shot at the priest.

  Although his sister despised the disfigured look their affliction bestowed upon them, he sometimes found it useful, for it necessitated wearing hoods that concealed his true expressions.

  When the pain finally began to shake his body, he retreated, making one last determined effort to appear composed.

  He stumbled down a long hallway, passed a corner, and then collapsed onto the floor.

  He had never felt something alike from anyone before.

  The pain was still fresh in the memory of his nerves, the blue-marked man clear in his mind.

  Hunth and his sister had a sense that made them particularly adept trackers of certain folk.

  The disease in their blood, Tenebria, had a reaction to some people.

  This usually felt like nothing more than a tingle or a slight discomfort. But the painted man sent piercing nails straight through him.

  The priests had many times explained how the Flamesin marked a person and what one did to become marked. There are many sins and many reasons to sin. Greed, lust, and anger are usually in the forefront.

  However, the Flamesin goes deeper than that. More profound.

  We all have our battles to fight, and the Flamesin is the defeat of said battles.

  A giving in to the weakness of the soul, the darkness within.

  Hunth was aware of his own weakness, as he was sure all men were in the end.

  Some were just deceiving themselves, those too weak to fight.

  Only an unworthy spirit lies to themselves, and Hunth was not an unworthy soul.

  No, the fault in his soul was that of doubt.

  Doubt in his faith, as the clergy tried very hard to rectify in his youth.

  Doubt in his superiors, as his father would so often chastise him for.

  Doubt in himself, as the nights crept in and he was alone with his thoughts.

  Doubt was his fight and spar they often did.

  But never would he see himself defeated.

  With a groan, he got up from the floor, brushing the dust from his attire, though his curiosity lingered.

  What had the painted man done?

  His dwellings where they found him had been simple. No items of memory nor items suggesting what the man's weakness was. Something heinous, that was a given, but not what.

  Just a man with a few supplies and clothing, his bird hiding in the trees, them both just waiting to be found.

  Maybe they would get some questions answered before they sent the man away to Fort Light with the rest of the sinners, he hoped.

  He was sure the queen would have to oversee such an execution.

  For now though, it mattered little.

  Right now, he had to find his sister. And since he hadn't seen Stelych anywhere, he was sure if he could find the cripple, he would find his sister.

  A guard in the courtyard explained how Diema had borrowed one of his lackeys for “important business” he had quoted her.

  A few moments later he found Stelych standing watch by a stairwell. Or rather, sitting, to be exact.

  A gnarled, crooked tree with nothing better to do than watch the world go by, Hunth thought to himself.

  “Me lord.” Stelych greeted him with a bow of his head.

  “I presume you're looking for your sister? She’s down there.” Stelych nodded towards the descending stairs. “But I should warn you, she may not want more company.”

  “You mean more than she already got?” Hunth pressed in a challenging tone, making the steward shrink.

  “I was told to keep a lookout and to warn--”

  “I don’t care.” Hunth interrupted as he made his way past.

  He passed down the stony steps, into darkness, down to a dirt-floored cellar.

  He exhaled sharply.

  Was the dust in the keep not enough for her? He thought, stepping into the humid gloom filled with the stench of wet earth.

  He took a few silent steps, then paused.

  There were a couple of openings in every direction.

  Light shone beyond a doorway at the far end of the cellar.

  But there was something else. Soft groans, like whispers in his ear, and something wet and rhythmic.

  Oh, she couldn’t be this bloody stupid, could she?

  He cursed his sister as he slowly crept towards the glow, the sounds becoming clearer as he approached.

  He peered around the open doorway, the soft light illuminating the scene before him.

  In the chamber, a man was tied to a sconce, his hands behind his back.

  Hunth’s sister was pressing herself against the man, her back towards Hunth.

  She was the one moaning, grinding on her captive.

  He could see the young man's shirt was ripped, his chest covered in a fine sheen of sweat glistening in the lanterns dim luminescence.

  The man had his mouth gagged and his stare distant.

  Slowly, he met Hunth’s gaze.

  He made a stifled yelp through the gag, alerting Diema.

  She ceased with the sound.

  Her hood was pulled down, revealing her elongated head and the wan skin beneath.

  Slowly, she turned her head, facing her brother.

  Her mouth was still wide open, unnaturally so, saliva dripping from her lip as something protruded from between them.

  The thing, a fleshy tube covered in a slick sheen, stabbed from her mouth.

  Two small mandibles adorned the tip of the protuberance, framing a needle-like point.

  Small droplets of blood fell from the head of the member.

  Hunth froze as the thing from her sister's mouth slowly retracted back into its dwelling, vanishing past her lips as her wide mouth closed.

  As she turned, the full sight of the man behind her became clear.

  His upper body rose and fell in shallow breaths.

  A wound marked his chest.

  It was merely a cut, but what surrounded the wound was abnormal.

  The flesh beneath was sunken, caved in as though it had been hollowed out from the inside, like a worm-eaten apple.

  The captive eyes became wider, clearly becoming more lucid.

  He started sobbing incoherently, his gag muffling the desperate sounds, then quickly growing louder.

  His, by this point, terror-stricken eyes locked onto Hunth, pleading, the raw panic in them screaming as he did.

  Or rather, he tried to scream, to force words past the fabric stifling his voice, but all that came was a strangled howl.

  “Are you completely insane?” Hunth finally spat forth.

  “Oh, relax,” Diema told him, her words slightly slurred as saliva and blood pooled in her mouth.

  She let the mixture drip from her lips before spitting the gob onto the dirty floor.

  “The grounds are crawling with guards. And by morning there will be even more.” Hunth stumbled, his brain producing one horrible scenario after another.

  “The queen’s guard, even.” He continued.

  “By the flame, there’s a bloody paladin roaming around.”

  The servant became even louder as Hunth spoke, twisting in his restraints.

  “And shut him up.” Hunth growled.

  Diema furrowed her brows.

  “I don’t want to get bloody. You do it, as this is your fault.”

  Diema then took a step back.

  Hunth shook his head as he picked up a loose brick while his fury pulsed hot in his body.

  The servant kept crying and thrashing in his restraints.

  Hunth leapt forward, swinging the slab in an arc.

  The improvised weapon connected with a crack against the man’s skull, sputtering blood against the dirt floor.

  The servant's body fell limp instantly, slumping against the bindings.

  Hunth took a step back, assessing the man for a quick second, blood dripping down the servant's face and the brick in Hunth’s hand.

  He sighed before returning his attention towards his sister.

  “What in the flaming hell do you mean ‘my fault’?”

  “I was enjoying my meal. You rudely interrupted. He panicked.” Diema responded, calmly giving her reasoning in the matter.

  “Oh, how very logical.” Hunth sneered, tightening his grip on the bloodied brick as he leveled it toward her.

  “Then tell me,” He continued, his voice rising in anger once more. “What’s the logic behind deciding to feed on the queen’s fucking slaves?”

  Diema arched a brow, a slow smirk tugging at her lips.

  “Slaves? They are servants, not slaves. Please use the proper term,” she mocked.

  Her gaze fell to the slab in his hand. “And put that thing away before you get blood on me.”

  Hunth clenched his teeth as he let the stone fall to the ground.

  He took a deep breath in a weak attempt to keep his rage from flaring again.

  “Diema.” he said, his voice simmering.

  “As I said, relax.” Diema said.

  “Firstly, these aren’t even the queen's servants. They belong to the guard, not worth a damn. Again, please use the proper term.”

  She eyed the bound man, letting her tongue run across her teeth one more time.

  Hunth began raising his voice, but Diema cut him off.

  “No one will come down here. Stelych is guarding the stairs, and the walls are too thick for anyone to hear anything through.”

  “Yes, let the coward with a bent back guard against trained men. He can hit them with his cane if they get too close.” Hunth scoffed.

  “You know no one would dare object. Besides, there’s nothing of interest down here. I made sure to check first.” She said, “Why won't you ever trust me?” She cried in a childish voice and with a pouting lip.

  “Then please do enlighten me about what you are planning here.” Hunth requested, a little too quickly, he thought, as it made him look desperate.

  Diema, however, was in no hurry, letting him stew for a moment longer before continuing.

  “I’m going to tell Stelych to get rid of the body, alone, when I'm done draining this one.” She patted the bound man, only to find her hand getting smeared with blood.

  She sighed.

  “Stelych has managed before, he will manage now.”

  Hunth was unsure if she just wanted to torment him longer or if this actually was her whole plan.

  “Is that it?” He asked after a moment's silence.

  Diema peered thoughtfully at her brother.

  “Yes? You want me to say a few words before Stelych gets rid of him? Some burial prayers, perhaps? Maybe Stelych could get some flowers.”

  She was still mocking him.

  Hunth started pacing back and forth in the dirt as his mind kept throwing disastrous outcomes to the situation at hand.

  She let him stew in his anxiety for a while, saying nothing, as the vein in his forehead pounded away, ready to burst, it felt like.

  “Do you think the bird is from the veil?” Diema then asked, her tone becoming more sincere.

  “I’ve never seen the like before, and I've heard a lot of people suggesting it may be birds or bats or some insect that make up the darkness.” She explained.

  Hunth had heard the theories himself, many times.

  Diema continued. “It is said that they never land. Or that they live somewhere we don’t know about, like the ocean or maybe in volcanoes. Do you think it could be one of them?

  Hunth stopped, pondering the question posed.

  “It doesn’t sing, though.” He answered.

  “Maybe because it’s without the company of the others? Maybe they only sing with their family? Or to loved ones, like other birds.” Diema reasoned.

  “The thing is, I feel the flamesin from it too, but different. Almost as if it carries the mark deep within itself, hiding it in its stomach. Do you?”

  Hunth had felt the same thing. An unknown feeling, new to his senses.

  But then again, so was the sensation radiating from the blue-marked man.

  He nodded.

  “Some people claim the veil is a part of hell, leaking into the heaven above. Maybe those birds are demons, and that’s why we feel them.” He pondered out loud.

  They both grew quiet in reflection, with only the tap-tap of blood dripping from the servant interrupting the silence.

  “You hungry?” Diema then asked.

  He was.

  In fact, he was ravenous.

  They both feasted their eyes on the servant hanging limp in his restraints.