Ashes of Doubt, Flames of Faith

Inside, silence reigned as the witch hunter addressed his gathered squadron. "So, the Death Dealer," he said, his voice even, deliberate, "from what we have gleaned thus far, possesses the ability to kill with nothing more than a name."

The air within the tent was heavy with the scent of oil from flickering lanterns. The men exchanged uneasy glances. Ulric leaned forward slightly, his unease evident.

"How exactly he does it remains unclear," the witch hunter continued. "We have Batin's account, but given his... particular circumstances, it would be folly to take his word for it."

Ulric frowned. "But how can we be certain it isn't divine punishment? What if this Death Dealer is no man, but a scourge sent by the heavens?" His words hung in the air, the unspoken doubts of the others reflected in their wary gazes.

Seated at the head of the room, the witch hunter rested his gloved hands on the table, his piercing eyes scanning the men before him. 

Wilfred snorted. "We killed him once—or so we believed. The man we were certain was the Death Dealer died by our hands. Yet his deeds continued, unabated!"

"Not entirely," Wymond interjected, his calm tone cutting through the tension. "There was a brief pause after his death. A few days, perhaps. Then it began again. If the Death Dealer is no man, but some spirit, could it not have leapt to another host?"

The witch hunter shook his head with quiet conviction. "Without a shadow of a doubt, the Death Dealer is neither divine punishment nor an incorporeal entity."

"How can you be so certain?" Obe dared to question. 

"Because of the reports. You all recall reading that Batin was missing a finger when he was delivered to the royal court, do you not?" retorted the witch hunter.

The men nodded, though their confusion deepened. "And what does that prove?" Ulric asked.

"Before the man we believed to be the Death Dealer died, his targets were always individuals whose bodies would remain intact. Yet, after his supposed death, he began targeting condemned criminals marked for decapitation."

"Regardless of the state of the body—be it headless or shattered—if the condition tied to his power is met, the pieces are reassembled, and the victim is brought back to life." The witch hunter's gaze swept across the men, ensuring the weight of his words settled over them. "That includes missing fingers."

A spark of realization lit Ulric's eyes. "Then... the Death Dealer must have severed Batin's finger himself!"

"Precisely," the witch hunter affirmed. "He uses it to track us, the finger seeking to reunite with its owner."

"But Batin is on his way here!" Wilfred exclaimed, bolting upright. "We must leave before the Death Dealer finds us!"

"We are not going anywhere," the witch hunter said, "We will remain here and wait for him." He then leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping the room. "I trust you now understand why the Death Dealer cannot be divine punishment, or some ethereal being." 

The men exchanged uneasy glances, their confidence shaken anew. Wilfred, now seated once more, looked at the ground. Wymond then broke the silence. "Of course! If the Death Dealer were divine punishment, he wouldn't need to track us at all. And if he'd truly taken another vessel, he wouldn't need to keep such a close watch on our movements."

The witch hunter nodded. "Precisely. My guess is the fire revealed possibilities he hadn't considered before—methods to expand the reach of his power.

If body parts can be put back together, then it wouldn't be much of a stretch to think that ashes could be molded back into the original human again."

"Which means Emery Caffy is very much alive." says Ulric. "But why wait for Batin to come? Isn't that needlessly dangerous?" asked Oswin.

"Not only will we wait for him," the witch hunter replied, "we will bring him with us."

The tent fell silent once more. 

"We will allow manipulation to take place to gain a better understanding of the Death Dealer's true intentions."

The dirt road stretched out before Emery, winding through a landscape of rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The faint scent of damp earth lingered in the cool morning air. His cloak, weathered and dark, billowed gently behind him as he walked. Each step seemed deliberate, yet unhurried, his gaze fixed ahead.

Soon, a wooden signpost emerged from the horizon, its paint faded but legible. Emery's eyes locked on the largest sign: "Culogh"—his natal county. His pace slowed as he approached it, a flicker of nostalgia tempered by resolve crossing his face.

He stopped in front of the sign, pulling out a small leather pouch from his belt. Holding it aloft, he aimed it toward the sprawling county visible on the horizon. The finger twitched unnaturally, not toward Culogh but to the east, pointing with eerie precision.

His lips curled into a faint smirk as he tucked the pouch back into his garments. "Alright," he said to himself. "Time to find this week's criminals and condemned." He adjusted his cloak, pulling its hood low to shroud his identity, and began the trek toward the county.

As he entered Culogh, the scenery shifted. The outskirts were marked by modest farmland, but soon cobbled streets and stone buildings came into view. The bustling town square was alive with vendors hawking wares, children chasing one another, and townsfolk murmuring their daily gossip. Yet, as Emery moved deeper into the city, the atmosphere grew tense.

A crowd had gathered near the central prison. Their chants rang through the streets, a mix of fervent cries and rhythmic slogans. Emery slipped into a side alley, observing from the shadows.

The crowd near the prison gates was unlike any other Emery had encountered before. Hundreds of individuals—men and women of varying ages and social standings—stood together, united by a single purpose. They wore dark cloaks, many adorned with crude sigils. A banner fluttered in the wind above them, scrawled with the words:

"Justice Rebirthed: In Death, Redemption."

They called themselves "The Heralds of Reclamation."

The air was alive with their chants, rising in unison like an unyielding tide.

"Write their sins!

Write their names!

In death, let justice reclaim!"

The rhythmic chant echoed off the stone walls, blending with the fervent stomping of their feet. As the names of newly freed criminals and those sentenced to death were read aloud from prison registers, the Heralds would bow in unison. Each name was written on slips of parchment, which were then placed into a ceremonial urn. These slips would later be burned in a public display, the ashes scattered as an offering to the unseen entity they worshipped.

To outsiders, they appeared both fearsome and pitiable. Some townsfolk watched from a distance, shaking their heads in disbelief or whispering curses under their breath. A grizzled merchant muttered to a companion, "Fools, the lot of them. They'll rile the crown soon enough, and then they'll see how far their chants take them."

Others regarded the Heralds with curiosity, or even unease. A mother hurried her children past the gathering, shielding their eyes from the sight. "Don't look, dears," she whispered. "This isn't for us."

Emery pulled his hood tighter as he approached the edge of the gathering. The din of chants grew louder, the fervor of the crowd palpable as he slipped between clusters of Heralds. Some were reciting prayers to the Death Dealer, their eyes closed in devout concentration. Others held copies of pamphlets, distributing them with enthusiasm to anyone who approached.

A wiry young man, his face alight with zeal, pressed a parchment into Emery's hands without a second glance. Emery nodded silently, tucking it into his cloak before continuing.

The pamphlet contained the names he sought—newly freed criminals and those condemned to die that week. The Heralds, for all their fanaticism, had become a resource he couldn't afford to overlook.

He stepped back, finding a quiet corner near the edge of the square, and opened the parchment. His eyes scanned the list quickly. "It's become almost too easy," Emery muttered to himself. "They see the value in what I do. In my vision for a better world. And now, they unwillingly do the work for me."

He withdrew the quill pen from his cloak, the tool that had become his weapon and his ally, and began inscribing the names onto another piece of parchment, one by one. 

Once finished, Emery carefully secured the parchment and returned the pen to its hiding place. He lingered for a moment, observing the crowd from the shadows. The Heralds continued their chants, their voices unwavering in their reverence.

With his task complete, Emery began to move away from the crowd, slipping through side streets and narrow alleys that wove through Culogh. The city's vibrancy surrounded him, a stark contrast to the eerie intensity of the Heralds' gathering. Merchants called out their wares, children darted through the streets laughing, and the aroma of spiced bread filled the air.

For a moment, Emery allowed himself a rare sense of calm, his steps unhurried as he absorbed the familiar sights of his natal county. 

As he turned a corner into a quieter lane, his eyes caught sight of a hunched figure seated on the cobblestones, a small wooden bowl set before them. The man's clothes were threadbare, his face obscured by a tangle of unkempt hair. But there was something in his posture, a faint familiarity that gnawed at the edges of Emery's memory.

He slowed his pace, his heart beginning to race. 

Could it be...?

Impossible... Emery's mind reeled.

Emery approached cautiously, retrieving a coin from his pouch. As he dropped it into the bowl, their eyes met. Recognition struck them both in the same instant.

Alvaric's eyes widened, his lips parting in shock. "Y-you…" he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.