Innocence Parade

Lucian walked in silence with the others, his bare feet pressing against the cold stone path. Chains rattled softly, echoing into the oppressive quiet. The cursed moved as one, heads down, shoulders slumped. Each step brought them closer to the platform, the towering structure casting a shadow over the gathered group. Lucian kept his gaze fixed ahead, avoiding the hollow eyes of those around him. There was no comfort to be found in shared misery.

The air felt heavier as they approached. It clung to his skin, damp and suffocating, though the sky was clear. Lucian's mind wandered as he tried to suppress the anxiety twisting in his chest. His past bubbled to the surface unbidden, breaking through the fog of dread that surrounded him. It felt cruel to think of home now, when it was so far away, but the memories came anyway.

He had been an only child. That fact alone had set him apart in their small town, where large families were the norm. His parents had doted on him, filling his days with warmth and care. They had been proud of their lineage, of the Riddle family's long-standing connection to the Spade Suit. Generations of Riddles had served the Gilded Shovel, their lives entwined with the prestigious guild known for its craftsmen. Miners, architects, builders and card creators. The Gilded Shovel was more than a guild. It was a legacy.

In the Spade Suit, there was only one path, and at its lowest rank were the Dabblers, creators of cards. Being a Dabbler was just the beginning of the intricate and demanding journey of card creation. Each Dabbler was tasked with mastering the art of designing and enchanting cards, tools that played a crucial role in shaping the world. Cards encompassed all aspects of humanity, from the strategies of warfare to the mundane routines of daily life. Whether used to command armies, seal agreements, or entertain in quiet moments, cards were woven into the fabric of human existence. To begin as a Dabbler was to embark on a journey both revered and feared, for their work shaped the tools of fate and fortune.

Lucian's father had often spoken of their family's history. "Our bloodline is marked by the spade," he would say, his voice steady with pride. "We have always found our purpose in its service." The work of the Gilded Shovel was noble and necessary, and the path of the Dabbler was deeply entwined with it. Yet, Lucian's aspirations were far humbler. He did not dream of recognition or grandeur. He simply wanted to create cards and sell them, nothing special or extraordinary. Just a quiet life, crafting cards in a small shop and sharing them with those who would appreciate their beauty.

He remembered sketching designs on scraps of paper, imagining the patterns that could adorn his cards. They weren't meant to be enchanted or powerful, just beautiful in their own way. His dream had been to open a shop, to share his craft with others. It wasn't grand or ambitious, but it was his. He could still see the look on his father's face when he had shared that dream. Disappointment. It hadn't been spoken aloud, but Lucian had felt it like a weight on his shoulders.

That weight had only grown heavier when the mark appeared. He could still feel the pain as if it had just happened. The searing heat, the sharp sting as the mark etched itself into his skin. The mark of the Wildcard. His parents had been there, their faces frozen in shock. His mother had reached for him, her hands trembling. His father had stood silent, his expression blank. The mark had changed everything.

A special force from the Ironshade family arrived soon after, they are vassals of the House of Blades. They had moved with precision, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. There had been no explanations, no words of comfort. Their purpose was clear: to detain the cursed and maintain order. Among them had been a Champion a rank above the Warrior under the Diamond Suit, their presence commanding and unyielding. The Champion's armor was darker, adorned with intricate designs that signified their rank. They had said nothing, but their gaze had lingered on Lucian. He had felt small under that gaze, insignificant.

The memory of his mother's cries as they led him away was the hardest to bear. She had begged and pleaded, her voice raw with desperation. "There must be some mistake," she had said, over and over. "He's done nothing wrong." The Warriors hadn't responded. They hadn't even looked at her. His father had remained in the doorway, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He hadn't said a word. That silence had hurt more than anything else.

Lucian shook his head, trying to dispel the memories. They served no purpose now. He was here, walking toward the platform, his fate sealed. The platform loomed ahead, its surface etched with symbols he couldn't decipher. Warriors stood at attention around its base, their expressions hidden behind helmets. The cursed were herded forward, one by one, their marks glowing faintly in the dim light. Lucian's mark itched, a constant reminder of what he had become.

When his turn came, Lucian felt his legs grow heavy. A Warrior gestured for him to step forward, their hand firm on his shoulder as they guided him to the platform. The surface felt cool under his feet, the etched symbols glowing faintly as he stood in place. The Champion was there, watching from the center of the platform. His presence was magnetic, drawing all attention without effort. Lucian avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the ground.

The Champion began to speak, his voice calm and steady, yet heavy with authority. "The Wildcards are a threat," he began, his gaze sweeping over the cursed. "Each of you bears a mark that ties you to chaos. It is not your fault, nor is it something you chose. But history has taught us what happens when Wildcards are allowed to roam unchecked."

The words sent a chill through Lucian. He knew what was coming, but hearing it spoken aloud made it all the more real.

The Champion continued, his tone unwavering. "Throughout the ages, countless Wildcards have risen, claiming power they could not control. Some sought to rule, others to destroy. Genocides, wars, the collapse of entire civilizations… all have been traced back to the madness that the mark brings." he paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the gathering.

Lucian felt his stomach churn. The Champion's speech wasn't a revelation, it was a ritual, a well-practiced justification repeated every year at the Innocence Parade. The festival had always been an execution, a public display of control masked as necessity. He looked down at the platform beneath him, its intricate symbols glowing faintly, the same markings that had claimed countless Wildcards before him. He had known this moment was coming, but standing here, hearing the carefully crafted words that turned his death into spectacle, made the weight of it suffocating.

The Champion's voice softened, almost as if offering consolation. "We do not do this out of cruelty. The Innocence Parade is a tradition older than the kingdoms themselves, a safeguard to protect humanity from the chaos you carry. Each of you was chosen not because of who you were, but because of what you can become."

Lucian's heart pounded in his chest. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream, to shout that this was wrong, that he wouldn't be like any other Wildcard. But the words caught in his throat. Would it matter? To them, he was already lost. Lucian barely heard the words. His mind was elsewhere, caught in a storm of fear and uncertainty. What lay ahead? Was this the end, or was it some twisted beginning? He didn't know, and not knowing was the worst part.

As the Champion's speech ended, the Warriors standing at attention moved into position. One by one, they stepped before each of the cursed. Lucian's breath hitched as the Warrior in front of him extended their arm, summoning a card into existence. It bore the number three and the suit of diamonds, its surface shimmering faintly. At its center was the glowing image of a rapier, its blade sharp and unyielding.

The other Warriors did the same, each summoning identical cards. The crowd beyond the platform, silent until now, stirred with muted gasps and murmurs. The Champion raised a hand, and the murmurs ceased, a hush falling over the gathering like a smothering blanket.

"The time has come," the Champion said, their voice solemn. "The mark has chosen you, and so too has fate. For the safety of all, your life must end here."

Lucian's legs trembled as he watched the Warrior before him grip the card. The glowing rapier began to extend from the card, solidifying into a weapon of ethereal light. He turned his head slightly, catching glimpses of the others. Callen, standing to his left, was weeping openly, his shoulders shaking with every sob. Beside him, Ella clung to her chains, whispering prayers to a god that had long since abandoned them. Nearby, Meara began to laugh, her voice cracking and uneven. It was not the laugh of someone searching for meaning but the sound of someone completely lost. Her mind had fractured under the weight of the situation, and her laughter echoed with a chilling emptiness.

Lucian closed his eyes. He didn't cry. He didn't pray. What was the point? He felt the weight of the mark on his skin, burning faintly, as if reminding him of what he was. There was no escape from this. Resistance would only prolong the inevitable.

The Champion's voice rang out again, carrying over the silence. "May your sacrifice bring peace to the Eryndor and shield us from the chaos you carry."

Lucian opened his eyes just in time to see the Warrior thrust the rapier forward. The blade pierced his chest, searing pain radiating outward as his vision blurred. Around him, the others screamed, their cries blending into a haunting cacophony. Callen's voice broke through the chaos, a raw, anguished sound that cut deeper than the blade ever could.

Lucian didn't scream. He felt the warmth of his own blood spreading across his skin, the edges of his vision darkening. His body sagged against the chains, his strength leaving him with every passing second. He thought of his parents one last time, their faces blurring in his mind. He wanted to hold onto their memory, but even that slipped away.

As the Warriors withdrew their blades, the cursed fell one by one. The Innocence Parade had ended, its tradition upheld for another year.

As his vision darkened, he heard someone laughing in his mind, a cruel, mocking laughter that seemed to revel in his situation. Then everything went black.