Walk Through The Town But Wait...

Lont is already bustling with activity as I make my way from Cain's estate. The city is a machine in motion, gears turning as merchants unfurl their canopies, artisans open their shops, and workers trudge through the cobbled streets toward their posts. The scent of fresh bread curls through the morning air, mingling with the sharp bite of iron from the smithies. Street criers call out the latest news, their voices competing with the distant chime of the city bells marking the early hour.

Cain's estate sits high in the upper district, a place of order and wealth, so the area I find myself in is quite nice—obviously nothing like what I'm used to. The roads are smooth, paved with polished stone.

As I step into the market, I can almost feel the early morning energy. Merchants call out their wares, enticing passersby to look at their latest trinkets, voices rising in a chorus of shouts, bartering, and laughter.

The scent of sizzling meat drifts through the air, mingling with the sharp tang of spiced wine and the earthy musk of fresh produce. A butcher's stall displays thick slabs of cured venison, the rich red meat glistening under the morning sun. Nearby, a fishmonger guts a massive silver-scaled leviathan with practiced efficiency, his knife flashing as he tosses unwanted scraps to a trio of waiting street dogs.

Silken robes and sturdy leathers hang from wooden racks, their vibrant colors catching the light, while traders from the southern reaches of the Empire haggle over the price of rare spices in a version of English so fucked up it might as well be a new language. A blacksmith, his face streaked with soot, pounds a fresh blade against his anvil, the ringing steel a rhythmic counter to the chaos of the crowd.

As I move through the streets, the crowd shifts around me. Conversations hush. Heads turn. Eyes lock onto mine, then dart away just as quickly, as if afraid to linger too long. They know what my inhuman violet eyes mean. What the black robe signifies. Their movements become subtle yet precise—stepping aside just enough to clear my path, backs straightening, heads dipping in acknowledgment. Not quite fear, but something close.

As I push deeper into the market, the ebb and flow of the crowd continues to shift around me, people parting instinctively to give me space. Just minutes ago, a child nearly stumbled into me, but this time, one actually does. A boy, no older than seven, runs straight into my side, bouncing off and landing on the dusty ground with a soft thud.

His parents freeze. Their faces drain of all color as they scramble to pull him away, hands shaking as they clutch his small frame to their chests. The father opens his mouth, probably to beg, but no words come. The mother looks one breath away from collapsing.

I sigh in exasperation. This newfound sense of importance being placed on me is getting really fucking old. "Relax. It's fine, no harm done," I mutter dryly, adjusting the cuff of my sleeve. My words only make their fear spike further, likely mistaking my annoyance at their Elite treatment as anger toward the small child running into me.

The father drops to his knees, the mother following a second later, pressing the boy's head down as they both bow low, their shoulders trembling.

My senses stretch out instinctively, picking up the frantic pounding of their hearts, the sharp scent of fear clinging to them like sweat. It's suffocating.

"P-please, my Lord, h-he's just a child," the man stammers, his voice shaking like someone who's had too much to drink.

I don't even look at him. "It's fine. Just a simple mistake," I say loudly, with a cold indifference I didn't feel. 'You can all go now" 

As I turn to leave, a sudden commotion behind me makes me pause. Three inquisitors burst through the small gaggle of onlookers, their dark robes billowing as they shove aside merchants and commoners alike. Their hoods are down, and their boots strike the ground with practiced authority, hands resting on the hilts of their weapons as their eyes scan the scene. It doesn't take them long to lock onto the family still scraping the dirt in front of me.

One of them, a man with sharp features and a hard-set jaw, steps forward. "Awakened," he addresses me with a stiff bow of the head. "Are you alright?" His gaze flicks between me and the kneeling family, suspicion clear in his stance.

The second inquisitor, a woman with short cropped blonde hair with cold, calculating hazel eyes, tilts her head. "Your name, Awakened?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I exhale through my nose, crossing my arms. "Ayato Daath," I say lazily before gesturing at the cowering parents and their wide-eyed child. "And yes, I'm fine. A small child isn't exactly a threat to me. Or do you think I'm that fragile, hmm?" I sneer.

The inquisitors don't immediately respond. Their eyes linger on the family for a beat longer before shifting back to me, waiting, perhaps, for a command. Or permission.

Then, the female inquisitor's eyes suddenly widen, her posture going rigid as realization strikes. "Blessed be Aren," she breathes, taking a half step back. "That name—Ayato Daath. You're the three-mark bearer. The first one ever. Bishop Lark told us about you months ago."

At her words, the other two inquisitors stiffen, their expressions shifting from professional detachment to shock—then to something almost euphoric, as if they can't believe their luck. Without hesitation, all three drop to one knee, fists pressed over their hearts.

"Child of Light," they intone in unison, heads bowed.

A ripple of movement spreads through the gathered crowd. Whispers fill the air as the onlookers, hesitating for only a moment, follow the inquisitors' lead. The murmurs turn into hurried obedience as men and women kneel, pressing their foreheads to the dirt in deference.

I blink in utter shock, staring down at them, baffled beyond belief. "Oh, for fuck's sake," I curse under my breath, rubbing a hand down my face. "What in the absolute damnation is this?"

I stare at the sea of bowed heads, my jaw tightening as irritation curls in my gut. "What the hell are you all doing?" My voice cuts through the murmuring crowd like a whip.

The lead inquisitor lifts her head, her face alight with worship. "Elites deserve respect and obedience as those chosen by the Divine," she says, as if stating the obvious. "But you… You were specially blessed by the Divine Light itself."

One of the others, still kneeling, nods eagerly. "For hundreds of years, we in the Order theorized and argued the possibility of a three—or even four—mark bearer appearing, proof of the Divine's will manifesting in its purest form. Some said it was impossible for a mortal to bear that much power, that no soul could withstand the strain that three or more marks would bring. But now, here you stand before us—a living testament to the truth that the Divine moves in mysterious ways." "You signify great change to the world, my Lord."

My hands curl into fists at my sides, heat bubbling beneath my skin from sheer, unfiltered hate. The Inquisitors. The very people I despise. The ones who tore my life apart, who uphold this wretched system, are now kneeling before me like I'm some sort of saint sent to lead them to the holy lands.

The irony is enough to make me choke on it. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself, but when I look back at the sea of kneeling fools, their heads bowed into the dirt, I can't help myself. The hate in my heart surges—sharp, intoxicating—almost as fast and as harsh as a hit of Shine to an addict.

That's when the whispers start.