Chapter 11 – Disguised Exile (1)
Three months had passed since the group returned from the expedition to the Gate of Order.
Bastian and the others reported… enough. Just enough to justify several days of disappearance, the altered state of their bodies, and the new seals etched into their flesh like crests from a forgotten age. But they didn't tell everything. They never would.
They merely said they had found traces — signs of an ancient ruin. A temple. A Vis signature unlike anything seen before. And that surviving alone had been an achievement.
The Inquisition— the highest regulatory body overseeing the use of Vis within the High Convention of Ylliria, the nation to which Ezra and his group belonged — listened carefully. They investigated. And concluded there was no evidence to contradict the group's claims.
In the end, they officially acknowledged the accomplishment.
Awarded the group a symbolic medal.
And a generous reward.
Not for the truth.
But for the usefulness of the lie.
In the streets, on the networks, in the markets of the great suspended cities from Orynas to Voltera, their names echoed like legends in the making.
Meanwhile, Ezra…
Back in his family's mansion, he locked himself in his room. Doors sealed. Curtains drawn. Devices turned off. He had returned to the city with the others — physically. But he had never truly come back.
His home — or rather, his family's — an opulent estate in the central district of Iliad, the capital of Ylliria, became a cocoon. A temple of silence. A prison of thought.
The outside world called him "Great adventurer, future legend, extraordinary." But to Ezra, it was just another cruel irony.
He had guided the group to the end of the world. And was the only one who hadn't truly crossed it.
On sleepless nights, sitting on the floor among scattered books, ancient maps, and notes that no longer made sense, he asked himself:
"Why?"
Why him, of all people?
He was the one who organized the expedition.
The one who deciphered the ancient records about the Gate's location.
The one who led every step.
The one who believed more than anyone.
And yet, he was also the one who knelt while the others… ascended.
Out there, their names were beginning to merge into legend. And his… was fading.
Ezra spent his days revisiting the symbols he had seen in that place beyond the world. He tried to sketch them with trembling hands, as if he could capture the echo of something divine in strokes of charcoal and crumpled paper.
He also tried to hear the voice of the Law. The one that had once nearly… touched him.
But it had gone silent.
The golden seal that was his — that should have been his — now glowed on someone else.
Thud. Thud.
The knock at the door was harder than usual. Ezra didn't move. He was used to sounds, echoes, whispers, memories disguised as noise. After all, they had been bothering him for three months, but they always left after a few hours.
But this time was different.
"Ezra!" It was a voice that still held some weight for him. Firm, deep, marked by time, but still pulsing with authority. "Open this door. Now."
THUD.
Ezra remained still. His silence only made the pounding more violent.
THUD.
"Ezra!"
This time, the force was so great the wood gave way.
CRACK.
Shards flew. The door — or what was left of it — splintered into pieces with muffled groans and cracking timber.
Ezra flinched. Not because it surprised him… But because, deep down, he had never truly believed the door would be broken.
Breaking the door was more than violence.
It was crossing a line.
A tall figure appeared in the ruined doorway.
A face marked by years. Eyes steady as stone.
His garments — simple yet refined — swayed lightly with the breeze.
His expression was solemn.
Stern. Unshakable.
Until his eyes fell on Ezra.
Then the resolve cracked.
The hardened face faltered.
And in place of strength… came pity.
Ezra — once not the most handsome, but still handsome, proud, well-kept, with intense brown eyes and a restless soul — was now unrecognizable.
His eyes were sunken, ringed by deep shadows, and his pupils… unnaturally red, like smothered embers.
His hair, once silky and neatly combed, now hung in tangled strands down to his neck — faded, grayed, as if time had passed only over him.
Dried herbs lay scattered on the floor, mixed with crumpled papers, torn-out pages, and frantic scribbles.
Liquor bottles — all kinds, even those that should never have left the family cellar — lay empty, toppled, forgotten like fallen soldiers.
Burnt-out candles, some reduced to charred stubs, lined the room, while circular symbols covered the walls, ceiling, and floor: imperfect circles, rituals repeated into madness.
And then… the smell.
The smell was worse than everything else.
It was old mold, dried sweat, and the sour tang of a body that had long given up on itself.
A quiet, subtle rot — alive — mixed with the sickly-sweet scent of whatever was in Ezra's hands.
A homemade vape, crafted from old copper and cracked glass, pulsed faintly with a bluish light. Inside was something — thick, viscous, a darkened purple hue — lightly bubbling with every drag.
The smoke it released was thick, almost liquid, trailing in the air like a broken spell.
The man stopped at the edge of the shattered doorway, frozen. Whatever he had come to say… died in his throat. His gaze, once always severe and unwavering, now trembled.
'Ezra… how did you end up like this?'
Ezra didn't look at him. He remained seated on the floor, in the center of a ritualistic chaos, like a prisoner who had built his own cell.
He exhaled a slow plume of smoke, slithering through the air as if it too were tired, and murmured in a hoarse voice worn from sleepless nights:
"Patriarch… best... grandfather answer me."
His eyes — dry, dim, drained from seeing the same mistake over and over — were fixed on a particular symbol on the wall: an imperfect circle, scribbled, scratched, redrawn dozens of times. Always the same. Always wrong.
"What's the point of my life?" The question came low, raw, like it had already been asked to himself a million times… But now, it had a listener.
The man's brow furrowed slightly. "Why that question now?" he replied, voice calm.
No judgment.
No fear of another's pain.
Ezra blinked slowly, as if the simple act of returning to reality demanded effort.
"When my family abandoned me… my mother was the one in charge. Remember?"
"…"
The man felt a faint throb in his temples, but said nothing.
"My father… stayed silent. Her rejection hurt, yes — at least she admitted I was a mistake, a flaw.
But him…? He just erased me. Denied me out of shame, out of weakness."
Ezra inhaled with difficulty. The room's stench seemed to thicken with every word.
But he didn't stop.
"Against all odds, against every voice… the father of that same father — you — were the one who gave me light."
He slowly lifted his eyes, the red pupils glowing faintly in the room's half-light.
"You once said every living being has a reason to exist. No matter how small. No matter how foolish it may seem. That even the ugliest can become beautiful. And the weakest… strong."
A thin stream of smoke slipped from his lips.
"All it takes is for someone to be given a chance. And for them to seize it."
Silence.
"Did you truly believe those words?"
The man didn't answer.
He only stared.
Ezra paused. His voice — once hoarse and flat — now trembled with tightly-held bitterness.
"But… what if you did everything? Clung to every chance? Swallowed pride, fear, pain… And still, at the end of it all, the world looked you in the eye and said: 'No'?"
He lifted himself slightly, leaning on his trembling knees. His eyes locked on the Patriarch's.
"You said the world is fair to those who strive. That the Law rewards those who try."
Then, with a firm voice, he asked: "Then why does it refuse to look at me?"
The man didn't answer.
But his eyes — once still, distant — were now filled. With sorrow. With something that looked like regret. Or maybe… just the pain of watching a seed he himself had planted grow into something he never knew how to nurture.
"Why does everyone treat me like I don't exist…?
Why is it that I'm worth nothing?"