Secrets of Light and Shadow: Chapter 7

Niccolò worked quickly, shoving as much parchment, ink, and tools into a small satchel as he could. His heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the weight of Benedetto's discovery in his hands, the truth that had cost the man his life. He wouldn't meet the same fate—not yet.

Everything he couldn't carry, he discarded into the fireplace, feeding the flames with calculations, sketches, and diagrams. He watched the pages blacken and curl, the symbols dissolving into smoke.

Night fell, and he wrapped a cloak around himself before slipping out the door. His horse waited by the stable, its reins tied loosely to the wooden post.

But before he could take another step, a shadow detached itself from the wall of his house.

Raize.

The inquisitor leaned casually against the stone, arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his tone was almost amused.

"Where you going at this hour?"

Niccolò stumbled back, his grip tightening on the strap of his satchel. His mind raced.

"I… just need to visit a grave, is all," he said, forcing the words out as steadily as he could.

Raize tilted his head. "Hmm. At this hour? And what's in the bag?"

Niccolò swallowed. "Just some flowers. Memorial gifts."

Silence.

Raize studied him for a moment, his eyes half-lidded, as if barely interested. Then, with a slight shrug, he pushed off the wall.

"Alright," he said.

Niccolò hesitated, then nodded and made his way to the stable. He unhooked the reins, keeping his motions slow, measured. He could feel Raize watching him.

"If you would excuse me, I will go now," he said, mounting the horse.

He steered the animal onto the path. But instead of turning left toward the cemetery, he veered right—toward the town's exit.

Behind him, Raize let out a quiet sigh.

"Follow him."

From the shadows of the alley, figures emerged—men in black and white, their armor bearing the insignia of the Church. They moved silently, mounting their horses and falling into pursuit.

—

Niccolò urged his horse forward, the hooves pounding against the dirt road. He could see the treeline ahead, the path that would take him to the next village.

But the sound of hooves behind him grew louder.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. The inquisitors were closing in, their horses bred for war, swift and relentless.

One of them raised a bow.

"Fire," Raize commanded.

An arrow whistled through the air.

Niccolò barely had time to react before his horse let out a piercing cry. The animal stumbled, its front legs collapsing beneath it. Niccolò was thrown forward, hitting the ground hard. He tumbled down the rocky path, his body slamming into the dirt.

Pain exploded in his arm. A sickening snap.

"AHHHH—FUCK! MY ARM!"

His vision blurred, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could taste blood in his mouth.

Slowly, Raize dismounted and walked toward him.

"Man," he muttered, shaking his head. "You were just a chill guy. I didn't want to have to do this." He sighed, rolling his shoulders. "But I can't have a heretic like you running loose."

Niccolò tried to crawl backward, clutching his broken arm, but his back pressed against something cold and unyielding.

A cliff.

Below, the river rushed wildly, its dark waters moving with an indifferent, unstoppable force.

Raize stopped a few feet away. "Now, hand me the bag," he said, his voice calm. "And I'll make your death painless."

Niccolò's grip tightened around the strap. His mind raced.

He looked at the river. Then back at Raize.

"Never!"

And before Raize could react, he threw the bag over the edge.

The inquisitor's eyes widened, his expression twisting into something between shock and rage.

"You bastard," he growled.

The dagger flashed in the moonlight.

Niccolò felt the blade sink into his throat.

A sharp, searing pain. A gurgling sound.

His hands flew to his neck as blood gushed between his fingers. His breath came in wet, choking gasps. The world spun, fading at the edges.

"Aughh, Aahhh," Niccolò's eyes reddened and widened. He claws at the dagger in his throat as it continues to choke him on his own blood. He grabs the handle of the dagger with his good arm but fails to pull it out. He attempts to post himself for better stability but he uses the broken arm causing him to fall down in a prostrate position, the dagger going all the way through his throat on impact. 

Raize twisted the knife out and leaned in close.

"Choke on your own blood, heretic," he whispered.

Niccolò's body convulsed.

Then, nothing.

—

Raize stood up, flicking the blood from his dagger.

"Let's go," he said.

Two of his men dismounted and lifted Niccolò's limp body, slinging it over a horse. The scent of blood filled the air, mixing with the damp earth.

As they turned to leave, Raize cast one last glance at the river below.

The bag was gone, swallowed by the current.

The knowledge was lost. Or so it was thought. 

—

Days Later

A fisherman stood by the river's edge, pulling in his nets. He worked in silence, his weathered hands moving with practiced ease.

As he hauled the catch onto the shore, something else came with it.

A bundle of parchment, soaked and torn, tangled in the reeds.

Curious, he bent down, peeling apart the damp pages.

His eyes scanned the strange diagrams and symbols. The ink was smudged, but the meaning was still there.

The fisherman frowned, tilting his head.

What is this?