Conscription
Ophiera had forgotten how much she despised the sight of Feyralis. Other travelers would have rejoiced at the first glimpse of the magnificent city. But all she saw was a blight of civilization against a sparse, green countryside. Its towering stone walls loomed on the horizon, souring her mood.
The rhythmic clang of armor fell to silence along with her heavy steps. She needed to stop for a moment to catch her breath. And by catching her breath, she meant gathering her nerve before continuing toward the capital. Thankfully, no one else was in sight along the main road. No one could judge her actions but herself.
While chewing her lip, Ophiera studied the endless steeples of sharp crimsons and shimmering golds peeking shyly over the distant bulwark. Even from afar, the towers within the walls shone vividly in the midday sun. The varied chromatic spires created a picturesque skyline…or at least that’s how others would have described it. But Ophiera found the city imparted a very different vision: one of bloodied fangs set within a stern stone jaw, open wide as if prepared to consume the sky. That was the Feyralis she remembered, the city she swore she’d never set foot in again.
Years had passed since Ophiera last viewed the centerpiece of the Tanvik nation. To this day, the capital city of beauty and beast caused her gut to churn with confliction. Or perhaps it was merely her belly aching after traveling on foot for half a day without breakfast. Regardless, now that the city was within sight, she would soon be relieved of the strenuous journey. Then her real task would begin.
Unlike the last time she'd stood in this very spot, years ago, the road before her now lay fully paved. Flattened and grey cobbled stones reached out from the city, all the way to the edge of the Severed Wood that she just left behind her. She guessed that before the next spring, the road would be paved in full, through the southern woods to the port city of Cantheas. Civilization had a few perks, she supposed. Her aching legs welcomed the smooth road ahead.
She had come from the south through thick forests, on gravel roads still muddied by spring rains. While luck had accorded her escape from the Severed Wood unscathed, prosperity would now ease the last leg of her journey. But no amount of good fortune could negate what was to come once she reached Feyralis.
With her lamentable destination in sight, she felt the sting of regret for what she left behind. Ophiera had departed Iluka with no notice to anyone except the village shaman. Like salt on a wound, knowing the small coastal village stood unprotected behind her hurt more than the sight of the city before her.
She tried to shake away her guilt with ratiocination while still catching her breath. Iluka had stood for millennia, she reminded herself. The quaint village existed and thrived long before she ever set foot on its sandy dunes. Most villages of the Southern Coastlands were long-lived and fiercely self-sufficient. Also fiercely traditional.
The coastlands were the last realm of Tanvik to still recognize the ways of the Phratries. A Phratries-trained shaman resided in every village, and every shaman appointed a Warden. The Wardens protected village interests along the sparsely populated coast. This meant that "protection" mostly involved keeping beasts away from the storehouses and helping prepare for the storms that ravaged the area year-round.
Though all coastland villages had Wardens, no other village had a Warden with Ophiera's skills. No other village had a Warden who had abandoned their post.
She wasn’t very good at making herself feel better.
The only thing that could improve her mood was to return home. She missed her small cottage on the outskirts of Iluka. It had been the only place of peace she ever knew, the only place she'd chosen to be her own. But she had no choice anymore. She had been summoned by the Magistrate and thus, must continue this bitter march toward Feyralis.
Ophiera should have known better than to think herself free of the Magistrate’s chains these last few years. Retirement was the proper term, despite its connotation of age. Though Ophiera couldn’t recall exactly how old she was anymore, the shaman in Iluka guessed somewhere in her third decade. But her age never really mattered to her. It never did to someone who felt they had lived long enough.
She couldn’t afford any more hesitation; it was time to move along.
Ophiera dragged her feet back to pace, resuming the rhythmic clanging of armor. She adjusted the straps on her pack, resettling the weight against her back.
The notice of summons felt heavy in her pack, although it was a simple piece of parchment. The writ had the Magistrate’s sigil pressed upon it, a damningly weighty signet on its own. But the addition of the Cloister’s seal beside it had crushed any remaining hope completely. She didn’t need to read the notice to know she had been conscripted. Again.
Even knowing couldn’t stop her from reading and re-reading the letter countless times. But it declared nothing outright as to the reason for the sudden summons. No task or intention was listed. The only clear message was the demand for her to uphold her Oath and return to Feyralis immediately. They even gave her a deadline, which fell on the morrow.
That’s why she needed to keep moving. She'd hesitated for too long already and if she arrived late, the punishment would be severe. It was just hard rushing to a dismal destination with an unknown purpose.
While the writ omitted the exact purpose of her subpoena, she was unsurprised by the ploy. The Magistrate preferred to deal in impression over substance. Their doctrines were written with far too much flexibility, ensuring murky interpretations. Obscure technicalities provided maneuverability within their doctrine, enough to shift their will on a whim; guaranteed to fall in the Magistrate’s favor. Ophiera had remained naive to their manipulations until it was far too late.
At least she'd managed a brief savor of freedom these last few years. More than any of her predecessors. She had thought herself so clever when she was released from her original contract with the Magistrate. All without returning to the Cloister, a feat no other had achieved. She had been relieved of all her duties and free to do as she pleased, under condition, of course. If she performed her duty ever again—upheld her Oath in any way—the retirement contract would be void. How stupid she had been to think she could outwit the Magistrate’s doctrine. Still, it was less stupid than thinking she could escape her Oath.
Ambiguities woven into the very ink allowed the Magistrate to interpret her protection services for Iluka as a formal duty. The bastards had set her up to fail. A life claimed by the Cloister meant she possessed a very narrow range of skill sets. All of which required her Oath and the beaten claymore strapped against her back. The Magistrate had known when they signed her release that she was doomed to enact her Oath, sooner or later.
Ophiera wiped the perspiration from her brow, a by-product of exertion and irritation. The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, warming the air, far exceeding the shaded temperatures of the Severed Wood. The trees along the road grew sporadically at the edge of the wood, widely dispersed in small bunches amongst the natural meadows. Quite unlike the dark and dense forest, this open landscape was peaceful, or so she had heard others describe it. Perhaps farmers or merchants found the rolling hills of farmland and thin thickets charming, but that was not how she viewed the veld surrounding Feyralis. She'd traded paved roads for exposure and vulnerability—which her lifetime of conflict left Ophiera painfully aware of.
Her stomach churned again, refusing to be neglected any longer. Perhaps she could spare time for a proper break. Procrastination was one of her several skills.
A suitable respite lay a short distance off the road, where an old, solitary tree with sprawling branches promised shade. After trudging through a small meadow, she arrived at the gnarled trunk. Ophiera first removed the massive claymore from her back, leaning it against the tree gingerly. The wide blade lacked a sheath—quite pointless given its size and condition. She studied the sword carefully for a moment, positioned against the trunk as if being laid to rest.
But wishful thoughts served no one.
With less care, she threw her leather pack into a rooted corner of the tree. Long ago, she had mastered the art of sitting in full plate mail, and yet the attempts always felt clumsy. Heavily, she sank down against the trunk with minimal grinding of her armor.
The bright foliage of spring’s apex offered a welcome shade. For a moment, Ophiera sat like this, stiff and unmoving as she watched the breeze dance through the meadow. The motion of the reeds and whisper of the grass reminded her vaguely of the ocean. Of Iluka.
Before her thoughts grew too bitter, she pulled from her pack a skin of water and the last gemfruit she carried. The dark purple stone fruit would be all she’d eat today until she arrived in Feyralis.
The ancient tree was gnarled and knotted, but the protruding bark was of no discomfort. Ophiera’s armor always served as protection, against foe and nature alike. Old and beaten, the ancient armor still functioned despite its scuffs and dents. And even beneath the shade of the tree, the golden hue of the plate mail gleamed, grandiose in style and unmatched in function.
The armor represented yet another duality of her existence: her most precious possession and a symbol of her chains. Most of her life had been spent in this beaten armor, nostalgic in the most painful sense. As she chewed the sweet and tart fruit, the flavor turned bitter against her tongue.
A faint rustle pulled Ophiera away from her darkening thoughts. To the untrained ear, the sound could be easily mistaken for heavy wind or a small animal crossing the meadow. But she recognized the sound of someone’s feathered steps approaching from behind the tree. Whoever was here walked with intentional stealth, and sneaking was never a sign of innocent intentions.
Ophiera steeled herself to take the necessary precautions and touched her hand to the ground. Her open-palmed gauntlets allowed the scarred skin of her Oath hand to touch the cool dirt. In a whisper, she murmured words that none but those trained by the Cloister recited. An incantation in a dialect long dead, one she did not understand herself, yet the words had been burned into her long ago. As she chanted the guttural syllables, the ground glowed in fiery runes, encircling her in symbols of golden light. Like the skyline and her armor, the glowing glyphs brought her both comfort and regret.
The footsteps continued toward her. Three sets, to be exact. She had a feeling this wouldn’t end well.
“Leave,” she called, unmoving, from her spot against the tree.
The footsteps stopped. For a moment, the air held nothing but the gentle rustle of the meadow. Hoping they would heed her advice and flee, she stole another bite of her stone fruit. But as the steps resumed, she chastised herself for such foolishness.
“Sorry, dear,” a voice growled, “can’t leave without you.”
The three sets of footsteps came round the broad trunk of the tree, two from the right and one around the left. Each step sounded sloppy, unburdened by conscience or packs.
Ophiera reasoned they must belong to a faction of outlaws. The main road was usually a popular hunting ground for new prey. She guessed they traveled light to ensure easy transport of their spoils. While theft itself was a crime by Magistrate law, that alone would not force her to enact her Oath. Only if murder was their intent would she be forced to enact her duty.
“I have nothing of value to you,” she said. “So, I will repeat myself; leave.”
The three footsteps became three men as they came into sight. They stopped, facing Ophiera and giving her a wide berth. She wondered if they recognized the emblazoned runes encircling her or were merely cautious. The golden armor was usually a dead giveaway in the past, but so few recognized her kind anymore. They wouldn’t dare proceed if they knew what the armor and the runes meant for their fate.
Calmly, she observed the three men, searching for their intentions. They were utterly filthy, dressed in deep brown leathers and worn linens. But the goldenrod bandanas they all wore about their biceps distracted her.
“That armor is worth something to someone, I’m sure,” said the middle bandit. “And what’s underneath’s worth even more.”
Bile rose in Ophiera’s throat. Clearly, he had no idea what her golden armor meant if he dared speak so disgustingly. The Cloister only bestowed the gilded plate to those who received an Oath of Retribution: the Oath burned into her hand upon her kindling. So few underwent the rites these days, and even fewer survived them. It was no surprise he did not recognize what she was, though she wished he had. Perhaps then they would have fled.
“And what if I refuse?” she asked in a steady voice. It was a blunt question, one she had already guessed the answer to, but she needed an admission before she would act.
One of the other men, younger than the presumed leader, chuffed at her question. “Well, it’ll be easier to take the armor if she’s dead. Then we won’t have to drag her back to camp.”
Her stomach churned as he sealed his fate. Upon his confession, her Oath demanded Retribution. He was willing to commit the greatest sin in Erum, the greatest slight against the Aether: to murder another soul in cold blood. They were anathemas then; their souls were cursed with their sins.
Retribution must be sought. The scars she harbored demanded her obedience. Why must they make her do this?
Enraged, she flung the gemfruit pit at the young man with all her might. A sickening thud preceded the yowl of pain. The bandit leader smiled at his comrade’s suffering, a loathsome expression. Based on the amount of blood, she'd likely broken the young man’s nose.
Good.
“Take her alive, if ya can…Ya know the Reverend prefers to do the deed himself.” The leader waved the other two forward, and they advanced upon her.
Ophiera didn’t have the capacity to worry about this Reverend; she was too busy preparing to uphold her necessary but brutal Oath. If these men, these anathemas, intended to kill her, then they'd likely claimed the lives of others before. Those unfortunate souls taken in sin were lost, unable to return to the Aether for rebirth. It was her duty to seek Retribution for the lost, to cleanse these corrupted souls and claim them for the Aether as a meager recompense.
The golden runes surrounding her pulsed with anticipation. As the first bandit stepped a toe over the runic circle, the runes ignited. Thick flames of pure white energy erupted from the ground, engulfing the man’s leg as his screams engulfed his comrades. The odor of charred flesh wafted in the air. Yet, with quicker reflexes than Ophiera expected, the bandit pulled himself from the pale, consuming fire, revealing the ashen stump left behind.
“The Reverend didn’t say she was a paladin!” the second crony cried, attempting to support his comrade’s collapsing weight. So now they recognized what she was, but it was far too late.
The agonized screams made it difficult to hear what the bandits yelled now, but their words meant nothing. Ophiera had begun to claim them for the Aether.
Ophiera remained seated with her back against the tree as the chant hissed under her breath. She dug her fingers into the dirt, commanding the runes with the foreign mantra. The golden symbols pulsated as she chanted, triggering the churning circle to widen. With a cry of fear, the leader turned tail and fled. The second man dropped his injured comrade with abandon.
They valued their lives enough to flee, yet had threatened to claim hers moments ago. The hypocrisy of these anathemas enraged her. Her chant became a shriek, a venomous voice coaxing the ring outward in chase. As the emblazoned circle crossed the injured man, white fire erupted from the ground again, burning him to ash before he could scream. Ophiera watched the two others stumble when it overtook them. Their anguished cries rang out before they became silent ash. The runes faded from the ground, leaving behind a bright green meadow marred by three tendrils of dissipating smoke.
Ophiera lifted her trembling hand from the ground, shaking the dirt from her palm. She placed her hand over her gilded breastplate. In the same ancient tongue as her rite, she prayed under her breath. Unlike the circle of flames, her words evoked no rite—this act was merely a convention. She’d found the prayer in a book, one of few passages translated from the symbolic language of the rites. Ever since, she recited the words for the corrupted souls she claimed for the Aether. And sometimes, like today, she added a plea for her own.
Three vespers rose from the ash. The small glowing orbs shone brightly despite the high sun. Her eyes burned against their light as she searched the vespers for the signs. Every soul she’d ever witnessed was different, as were these three. The leader’s shade glowed in a monotone, burnt orange, like a miniature sun hovering in the grass. Another shined despite its muddied brown coloration, and the last was nearly camouflaged as bright, acid green.
Only one commonality existed between the vespers before her, and all the vespers she’d ever seen. Within the varied hues of their souls, darkness swirled. Ripples of black corruption danced within the orbs, silhouetted against the brightness of their natural shades. The leader’s vesper held the darkest distortions, like a scrawled epitaph of his sins for the Aether to claim.
The first time Ophiera saw a vesper was the same day she began her service to the Magistrate. Trained by the Cloister and chosen by the Aether, paladins served the Magistrate by cleansing Tanvik of anathemas. Despite the dwindling numbers of the Cloister’s clerics and paladins, and those who followed their teachings, the Magistrate still relied on those with an Oath of Retribution to maintain justice. To keep Tanvik free of the corrupted souls.
The Cloister taught that all souls were born of the Aether. Upon a natural death, their vespers would return to be cleansed and cycle anew on Erum. Murder was an unnatural death—the ultimate sin. Yet it was the murdered, the victims that suffered, even in death. When a soul was stolen from the cycle by the sin of another, there was little chance of reclamation for the innocent; their souls became lost to the Aether and the cycle. Thus, without a chance for reclamation, the Aether demanded Retribution instead.
Retribution of a sort only Ophiera could claim. She watched solemnly as the vespers disintegrated, scattering their dimming light over the ground. Like a spring shower, their essence adsorbed quickly into the soil, making their way back to the Aether below.
Regardless of the taboo, she could never tear her gaze away from the vespers as they returned to Erum. So few in Tanvik had seen a vesper in these times. As it should be.
One had to witness the moment of death to see the manifestation of the dying soul, short-lived and ethereal. In times of peace, like in recent decades, only the Cloister’s clerics or the village shamans bore witness to the death of the sick and elderly. Whether driven by fear or taboo or convenience, the people of Tanvik didn’t want to see vespers.
Ophiera didn’t either, but, as a consequence of her Oath, she had lost count of how many vespers she had witnessed. All of them laced with the dark corruption of their sins. All of them returned to the Aether by her scarred hand.
She couldn’t stay under the shaded tree with charred remains for company any longer. No matter how justified, she always despised taking life. The three piles of ash were a fitting and fateful preamble for what was to come when she reached Feyralis. How many more corrupted souls would the Magistrate demand of her?
Maybe the three vile men were the reason she had been conscripted. Maybe she'd already completed her task, and would arrive to Feyralis just to be sent back to Iluka.
Again, wishful thoughts served no one.
With a healthy pace, Ophiera reasoned she’d reach Feyralis well before nightfall. She could spend the evening in the first tavern she crossed and continue her killing streak on several pints before reporting to the Magistrate in the morning.
Humor was not her strong suite.
From beside the tree, Ophiera retrieved her pack and hoisted her oversized claymore onto her back. She carefully pulled her thick braid of snowy hair forward, avoiding the blade of her sword. The color of the waist-length plat wasn’t reflective of her age, merely another consequence of her Oath. The shaman in Iluka often poked fun at her colorless hair, saying it matched the age of her soul.
Ophiera trudged her way back to the road, continuing toward Feyralis at a doubled pace. Her exhaustion went beyond physical and mental fatigue now. The rune rite had depleted most of her mana. Since her kindling at the Cloister, she held the holy flames within, and like true fire, it was short-lived unless fueled. Time and rest would restore her, just like every other person. But few others had powers and duties such as hers.
She still had her claymore for defense, but with little mana left, she could no longer call upon the holy flames without cost to her life. Just another reason to get to Feyralis as soon as possible. She hated herself for wishing that.
Bitterly, she wondered why fate had deemed it necessary to throw those three men before her. She had gone so long without any need of the holy flames, without seeing a vesper. The shock of how quickly she fell back in line disturbed her more than the sight of death itself. Had she even hesitated? Was her soul just as dark as theirs for so easily claiming lives? But she mustn’t spiral down this path of what-ifs and whys.
In need of distraction, she started to hum a melancholy tune. Music always siphoned the woes from her mind, even if the Cloister had forbidden singing altogether. It remained to this day her sacred rebellion.
It would be hours before she reached the city walls, longer still to the South gate. Plenty of time to sing away her self-loathing, to forget the souls burned in the name of Retribution.
