I wave
He waves back.
Tim turns to look at me one final time before he skips away and heads to class.
I also turn around and march toward Jan's desk.
"Vice-head, looks like you're early. Here—this document needs your urgent attention," a voice calls out, breaking my concentration.
"You are?" I stare at him.
"I'm Reece, your assistant and as I said this document needs your urgent attention." He holds it out blocking my path forward.
I snatch it out of his hands and look down.
"Missing person report:
'Todd'."
Todd
Fuck
I read further, recognizing that familiar cursive:
Upon inspection and analysis of all available reports, the subject's cause of death has been deemed accidental suicide. The body remains mostly intact, except for chirps pecking away at the moongrass seeds located beneath the deceased's nails, leading to an unfortunate defacement of the remains. Witness statements confirm that the deceased, Todd Looser, had high concentrations of alcohol in his system prior to his death, and nearby faulty logistics equipment had unfortunately buried his fall beneath piles of corpse cargo.
Signed: Ileane Jones.
The signature here is in different handwriting
Thanks Ileane I must owe you one.
I hold the report in my hands and continue onward to Sevistein's desk to where she sits.
"Pass me your green stamp." I demand.
She pushes it towards me and continues with her work paying me no further attention.
Thump.
The desk shakes for a moment.
"Still here, huh? No matter, I must see Jiord!"
"He's currently occupied."
"I need him!"
"He's in the prayer hall, finishing his morning sermon."
"Directions—give me directions!"
"Opposite side from your office. Down the left hallway, last door at the end."
"THANK YOU."
I stamp my feet toward the given path.
Familiar luminescent moss flares along the walls as I approach the corridor's edge.
The door hangs open.
I step through underneath the hanging ceremonial dagger mounted over the doorway.
The hall is large. But not only that, it is crumbling—pillars fallen into disrepair, scents of dusted cobwebs thick with caught dead skin, prepared for midnight dinner by the hangling spiders that string them.
But the main entrance hides this decay: clear, open, grand. Purified white light pours through the doorway, killing the molded damp, illuminating the various heads bowed in deep prayer.
A clear symbol of their misguided worship—why else would one want to stay in this dank room if not for the light?
From where I stand, I can see the solitary path ahead: benches congregating around a cobblestone aisle leading toward a raised platform where we both now stand, obscured in its blinding clarity as the room's centerpiece.
Jiord looms above the penitent preach-goers, chanting hymns from the podium. Upon meeting my gaze his tone changes, voice beginning to crack.
Heartfelt Orchestra performed in enrobed splendor—causing the crowd to cry.
His hands claw at his chest as if to free his trapped heart.
This serenade persists for minutes long.
Then…
He goes silent.
The room goes silent.
Even the flies are captured and killed before they can interrupt this sacred moment.
Finishing up he nods, the shadow on his face clears revealing a smile I've never seen from him before.
A true smile.
Happy.
Complete.
Fulfilled, but also…
Dead.
The bell chimes.
It echoes around the vaulted ceiling.
Slowly the people rise and exit the room, leaving only the two of us to stare at in this large, empty hall.
...
"You are finally ready to talk. Took you a while Des."
"I was told to find you. Out with it before I punch your face."
"How else do you think you landed a vice-head position here on your third day? How else did that report fall onto your desk — every account dressed in clinical ambiguity, except for Todd's entry.
I made sure he was obvious. You noticed, right?"
Did you notice the obvious code? Followed my paper-trail? The note? I even told Sevistien to allow your every request. I allowed you to have the robes because you needed clothes. Who knew you'd use them to convince Todd you were an agent!"
To think you would actually kill him in that way too. Genius. I only told you to push him into the pit, but that was spectacular. Truly brilliant play to watch.
Don't worry—I covered it up. No one will ever know. Not even the Sky Palace."
"Why would I purposefully make my life harder? The note said that if I did it in the pit he wouldn't be found. WHY DO I FIND HIS MISSING PERSONS REPORT THE VERY NEXT DAY."
"We moved before they could react. He was one of there's remember but its good that even now your brain is considering everything.
You are better than anything I could have ever hoped for. We need your mind Des!"
"You were watching me then? WHY! Is my life just some game for you to play around with?"
"Of course it is. Everyone's is. We live under their occupation, so, we must abide by our better's 'Guidance'."
He spits out onto the floor before elaborating.
"Don't ever forget how we are nothing to them. Nothing! So why should I not test people I deem to have potential. I tested many, but you were the one who passed."
He leans forward, eyes narrowing.
"I sacrificed everything to get to you—burnt my relationship with Ileane, my own adoptive daughter. She couldn't handle being indirectly complicit in manipulating you.
But it was worth it.
Through you, I can get so much more.
It's the small things—the details no one notices—that keep this camp shackled. That's real power: subtle, coercive deceit.
Most here carry shame, guilt, regret. But they're too busy lamenting the past—through drink, through prayer—to see the present being stolen from them.
"Tell me! Why should I believe you?"
"I think you already suspect it yourself, the inconsistencies. Things don't just happen here without a reason."
"Are you referring to the convicts? The refugees? The Sky Palace taking his body? The missing people?"
"Yes, they're all connected. You've read the reports, but you don't yet understand the 'why'. So listen closely."
He takes a slow breath.
This place… is a farm. And we are the animals.
Except instead of beasts, we have people. Well-trained and obediently sad people. More specifically to be precise, it is the rejects, the weak, the powerless from diverse backgrounds but equal in their disposability.
"Surely this is a lie, what evidence do you have!"
"Is it? You know what happened to your friend Marsley. He wasn't sent here by chance — none of them are. The Heavenly Sky Palace has agents everywhere, even in this camp. Watching, reporting, inciting. You even killed one yourself.
They don't merely tell people what to think; they cultivate them like tending to crops. The method is simple but effective.
Control!
They steer people to reach conclusions they've already constructed for them. They shape how to think, how to feel. It's not a single act; it's a repetitive ongoing system through the morning announcements.
Condition their beliefs, draw out their most passionate emotions and dilute them, direct them toward something distant and futile—keeping them docile.
It's undetectable to the ignorant—an easily concealed burden wrapped in the veneer of compassion. It stays with them, carried with the calm of someone pretending it doesn't deeply wound them."
He pauses, his voice softening.
"But stripped of it, they go hollow — listless, dull and obedient. Every day becomes rehearsed. This well-worn track of thought becomes their new irreverent identity.
We perform our lives for our own show, forgetting that we are its audience.
They choose ignorance.
And it destroys them.
They're not crushed by overt oppression, but by something subtler: their freedom and desire for change hollowed out, replaced by a vast, all-pervading emptiness—not of their own making—until acceptance becomes the only act of free will.
"EXPLAIN! What does that have to do with the farm!"
My tongue bleeds, bitten and tasteless in the process holding back my vicious outburst.
"Everything!
Don't you find it suspicious how much they know about De'sin? They might not grasp the mana-absorption of the Deadlands, but they have the bodies—lots of them. Infected corpses with similar properties. Enough to study and refine.
They cripple ascenders and morts, estimate their expected potency, then send them here to be infected and extracted. Once fattened up, they harvest their entrails. The yield isn't as desirable as beast cores, but it's controllable. Scalable. Predictable. And way, way cheaper.
This place is a garden of weeds — and we are the nourishment.
"..."
I swallow, deflating onto the floor.
I gag.
"Who..."
I want to finish but I can't, my throat closes.
He returns a strange look in my direction.
"Who else knows about this?" I finally manage.
"Just you, me, Sevistien and Nelson!"
"How..." I swallow bile.
"How could you know all this? Can you say with certainty—" My voice cracks. "Can you swear what you're telling me is true."
My body goes weak.
"How would I know? In this game I am the farmer, the feeder who sows the seed to keep you livestock well-fed and the weeds growing good.
Though if I were to die I know I would go out the same way!"
"This.. is all your doing?"
My throat heaves.
"Why are you doing this?" I object faintly, raising my cupped hands covering my paling face from his objectifying gaze.
"It's because of him."
". . ."
"Who?" I manage to speak out.
"My dead best friend — Jimson."
"Best friend? In your speech you made it sound like you were just close acquaintances." I lower my hands knuckle and leverage my body upward.
"You don't know anything! What he meant to me! I did everything I could — for him, for his family — just to keep them alive.
I pretended to be someone I wasn't and hid from everyone my past.
If I'd acted like we were close, they'd have seen right through me. If they suspected my motives, then he'd have disappeared too.
You never really lose that sense of paranoia, especially when you've seen what I have.
Nothing is beyond them.
And I swear to you, Des, they'll kill Tim just to get to me."
"I won't let that happen." I argue back, bringing myself before him in standing.
"What can you do? File a complaint? Write a report no one reads? You are powerless here."
Dryly, I laugh. My voice breaks.
"So convince me, then — why was it all his fault?"
He exhales.
The insides of his eyes sink in distance.
It started years ago. I was the fourth young master of a Saintly House, studying under Reverend Ming—a prophet-class respected by lords and patriarchs alike.
Jimson was there too, all those orphans were. We all grew up together, became close as family.
His robe crumples as he leans against the bolted wooden box, massaging his forehead with his twitching hand.
"Then Sophia—Jim's daughter—tested her mana at the age of fourteen. Too pure. Stronger than clan heads, stronger than even Father Ming himself. No lineage, no noble blood, yet she shone like heaven's chosen.
That threatened everything. The Houses couldn't allow it, couldn't ignore it either. They wanted to understand her power. Defile it and then own it."
"They came for her?"
"Yes, of course they came for her. Played nice at first—drew her into their factions, paraded her around, discreetly took her blood, her mana samples. Crushed pills into her food. When they couldn't find what they were looking for, they turned to the source. The parents."
Jimson I mouth, voiceless.
"They came to our town, but Father Ming protected us. They needed someone on the inside."
He looks down, voice tightening around his throat.
"It was me, I became that man for them. They held my little sister captive, she was illegitimate, a bastard. Said she'd die unless I opened a door. One door. That was all. I didn't know what it would mean at the time, told myself it was harmless."
Grabbing from his well-worn scapular, he drops it and letting it fail to the floor.
"They slaughtered everyone, Des. Every child, every resident. Father Ming fought them to a standstill—was even winning—until he realized: Heavenly Sky Palace. The supposed preachers of Esmerald herself. When he saw Salli's name come from my mouth, he understood everything."
A bitter laugh escapes from his mouth.
"He took control of me. Forced my body to kill him. Smiled while he did it too. Called it a mercy, I still see that smile every day."
Only his ragged breaths fill the suffocating space as he slowly slides down from the podium to the floor, both his hands covering his grieving face.
"Worst thing was, they were impressed. Thought I was ruthless enough to be useful. Made me their tamed pet all to track down Jimson. Crippled my mana-core for insurance and gave me this new Identity.."
"And you helped them."
"I helped him. I thought if I played along, I could keep him alive. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he turned up to their gate. If I said I managed to trick him into coming then maybe just maybe I could have enough leverage to help set him free."
"It worked… after a year of imagining them tear them all apart for nothing. I told them to send him what was left here, to the quarantine lands — a good opportunity to study De'sin, and study him from afar, perhaps even get a high quality specimin in the process.
They agreed, of course and appointed me their correspondent here."
"What about Sophia, did you think about her?"
"She'd become something entirely different at that point. From all that they did to her. A demon, they called her, this was after she turned traitor and fled, who wouldn't want them dead after finding what they did to your father.
They told me to kill Jimson if he ever turned sick. There was no way I could do that. So I made a deal — gave them a harder task. Kill Sophia instead, convince them that she was the prerequisite to getting him to willingly turn into their desired subject.
I thought it'd buy us time. She was at the time aligned with the demons. I thought she'll be safe there. Far, far away from here."
He stares at the cracks in the floor and the tears in the abandoned fabric.
"Then they announced the one thousand and thirtieth war. In my eyes, they started it for one reason—to get her back.
They did it. Spent countless lives.
Sent her body here to be burned as a cover.
Gave me her corpse... and a relic. Told me to make Jimson use it. Said it would 'awaken' the De'sin inside him."
A long pause.
"Who would've thought they managed to get that far, to actually wield this plague like it were a weapon."
His voice trembles.
"You bringing back that body, saved this settlement. They'd have razed it and killed us otherwise."
He looks up, his tone is flat now.
"They doubt me sometimes I think, but I deliver. They want a man—I give them one. They want numbers—I reach them. The people never know. But I always do."
"Why tell me this now?"
"Because I'm sick of it all. I used to be proud — pious; I thought I understood duty. Had clarity. But my hands are sin soaked in sin.
"I always thought I had it in me, to keep pushing through and persisting. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I pushed, I never went anywhere new and only ever made things worse."
"I felt it, I still feel it, Des. The responsibility. Responsible for my best friend's pain.
I couldn't do anything to help him but hurt him, And that hurt me.
I took ownership over something I should never have touched, but If I didn't, I could never touch it again.
"I thought I could change, Des. Not something so grand as the world—just myself. Through helping others, I thought I could overcome this feeling. And yet... it all remains empty.
Routine, community, pills, alcohol.
I've tried it all and I feel nothing.
Life is the hardest thing that I still can't do right."
He coughs into an open hand, wiping away his snotted face.
With his eyes straining in the blinding dark, he looks upward at me pitifully.
My heart forgets a beat.
Gunk sticks his chapped lips together as he speaks.
"I'm tired of pretending anymore. I am caged, unable to reach the potential that I once dreamed of as a child. I don't even remember if such things ever existed.
I constantly compare myself to the drinkers, to the broken — why are they so easily yielding? Why don't they persist like me?
I drift between guilt and avoidance. Vomit on the street a nightly occurrence. My blood runs thick with the knowledge of what my actions have helped enable.
I need someone to carry this with me. I need you to fix me, to punish me, do whatever it is you need to do to make me feel whole again."
His eyes give that same look as he asks.
"Will you do this, will you do this for me?"
I could say yes. Take his burden, let him have his rest.
It would be so easy.
But Tim's face flashes in my mind - not smiling, but watching him through that window.
Our distance grows with every compromise.
"No"
For a moment, confusion, desperation and fear.
His eyes search into mine for answers, clarification about what I just said.
I only stare back into his witnessing as my refusal as it replays in his mind again and again and again.
Now his gaze goes limpid, but his actions become increasingly certain.
"I thought I could never ask for help. Then I met you. You're competent. Ruthless when needed. Ambitious enough to act instead of just thinking about your escape. I made compromises sure, one's I can never undo. So if I can't hand you this burden..." Those eyes harden.
"I'll force it onto you. This will be my justice!"
He jumps up from the floor and lunges for the ceremonial dagger.
Oh no you don't.
I kick his knee out from under him, he kneels, falls then tumbles, lying against the podium again.
I pin him to the floor barely holding him down.
"As much as I hate every fiber of your being, I'm going to tell you the words you need to hear most. So shut up."
Taking a second to reclaim my breath I steady myself.
"..."
"I forgive you."
"What?!"
"I said I forgive you. Yes you did acts that I don't condone. But I can see why— perhaps even feel some empathy in my heart.
I can make you suffer, but that won't free you from your guilt. You exist to me and I see all of you, in crooked clarity; the monstrous victims that we are.
Alive. Struggling. Here. On this floor, with me."
"Impossible."
"You didn't let me finish earlier. I will not be your crutch. You will be mine. Follow me. Walk down this unpaved road behind me and amend your wrongs. I will be your guide.
You may trust in God for perfect dreams, but in reality, you will trust me — with this vision seized. This desperate hope for freedom bought. And I swear, this dream will be severe, my ambition is drawn taut. One purpose is made clear to me— to do everything to protect everyone here."
"But I manipulated you, no one in existence can be this forgiving. From what I've done."
"You say you manipulated me, tested me. No, my actions were always my own. I may have been a player in your game, but only I could chose my every move.
Don't even attempt to take from me the only thing I have left—my agency"
"..."
His carefully constructed mask cracks. For once, he has no answer for me or his actions.
I continue.
"I don't like you, but now I understand you. You are now a part of me, Jiord Jones, This town's suffering means something to me. And tonight, father, you showed me something I never knew about myself.
There are things I hate, despise, loathe and of course things that make me feel that righteous need to tear apart evil with my own two hands.
But now I know why I regret the kindness of my past. It was empathy that drove me to despair. That's all."
I pause, the weight of my words settling.
"Ironic how love leads one down the path to damnation. I see it in you too. To ignore our feelings is to ignore ourselves. Your words resonated with me.
I thought I was aware, that will be my hubris. Moving forward without ignoring the vital core of my identity. I may not be able to feel it, but now I can at least recognise it."
I reach out a shaky hand.
"Join me. We will go and plan our future independence."
"This is madness!!"
He brushes my shaking hand away.
Clap
I slap him, hurting my hand in the process.
I rub away my pain whilst clearing my parching throat.
"I have plans on how to act, this is the me you wanted. Don't deny yourself and follow me.
Free yourself from this burden—or will you submit and die by your own hand?"
His pupils diverge on the point of me, as if I were a far distance away and not right in front of his face.
His eyes refocus.
Then slowly, he nods.
Tim needs me at my peak. These people need direction.
I can crumble later in my sleep.
Right now, with the privilege of my passing wake, I will actively be the best version of this breaking self.
I nod back and reaching out a now stable hand.
He grasps it.
My grip tightens but he doesn't pull away—Not this time.
"Get up. We have work to do"