In many cities, it was easy to find a house near the slums. But only fools wandered into the slums without first checking with whoever ran the place. Every slum had an unspoken ruler— some greedy gang, some bitter elder, or some petty warlord with nothing but a chipped knife and enough scars to be respected.
Dusk knew this all too well. Even in his old home, he was never bullied, not because he was strong, but because he wasn't a stranger. Outsiders were the real prey. Here Dusk and Dawn are Outsiders.
Their carriages creaked out of the maze of broken alleys and low, shabby shacks. The air smelled of stale water and cooked scraps, of smoke and sweat. But ahead, a sharp contrast came into view— just beyond the last line of ruined homes stood a cathedral.
It wasn't towering or massive, but it was solemn. Imposing in its silence. Arched ceilings rose in thick curves, and from the tallest dome hung a massive golden symbol of the sun, radiant even without actual light. Beneath it, narrow windows filtered slivers of sunlight into sharp beams. It looked like the sun itself had been caged inside the building, forced to watch the city.
The convoy came to a halt near the square. The journey was over. Dusk stepped down from the carriage, helping his sleepy sister, Dawn, to the ground. The swordsman who had traveled with them gave a brief nod before vanishing into the busy street, too hurried for proper goodbyes.
Dusk felt a pang of disappointment but didn't dwell on it long.
The square in front of the cathedral was crowded. A huge gathering of people pressed shoulder to shoulder, shouting, murmuring, buzzing with energy. Dusk's stomach growled— he thought it might be a food distribution. His eyes lit up at the idea.
He grabbed Dawn's hand and squeezed through the crowd. The bodies around them grumbled and glared as the siblings pushed forward, but no one dared strike or shove. Not here, not in front of the cathedral.
Soon, they reached the front.
What Dusk saw wasn't a soup line.
At the center of the square stood a wooden platform. Tied to a thick stake in the middle was a pale, black-robed woman, her face serene despite the filth being hurled at her. Stones, pieces of wood, rotten food— none of it made her flinch.
"Go to hell, damned witch!"
"You brought misfortune to Ram!"
"My baby died last spring— It must be you. because of you, you cursed thing!"
The insults rained like arrows. The woman was hit several times. Blood traced down her cheek from a stone to the temple, yet she stood still, lips tight. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd not in fear, but in judgment.
Before the stake stood a middle-aged man dressed in a white robe embroidered with gold. A round, white beret sat atop his greying hair, and in his hand he held a sun-shaped charm made of metal and glass. He didn't speak. Didn't move. He simply stood there, silent as the grave, like a judge waiting to swing the gavel.
Behind him stood a row of men and women in matching white robes, their faces clean, bright, almost glowing with health and piety. They were like statues— silent, unmoving, untouched by the madness before them.
And behind them, armored guards formed a cold, unwavering wall. Their chainmail glinted in the sun. Their halberds remained fixed. They were here not to interfere, but to keep the line between order and chaos from breaking.
The man in gold embroidery finally glanced at a pocket watch. Then, raising the sun charm in his hand, he took a step forward.
Instantly, the noise vanished.
The crowd that had been screaming seconds ago fell silent as if their throats had been sealed shut. The only sound was the wind, gently rippling through cloaks and sleeves. Even the birds above the cathedral went still.
Dusk blinked in awe. Just one gesture...
The man's voice was low and calm, yet it rang through the square like thunder across a canyon.
"You, poor sinner," he intoned, "have been deceived by the devil. In your hunger for power, you allowed darkness to corrupt your body and soul. But the Light is merciful. Your punishment shall also be your purification. This is justice. And mercy."
The crowd didn't stay silent long.
"Burn her. Highness Luminar!"
"Cleanse her soul!"
"Praise the Radiant God! Praise the Light!"
Dusk's ears rang with their voices. It was terrifying— the way people shouted, not in rage, but in joy.
"Luminar…" he whispered. He had heard that title before in Lightrest City.
The Luminar raised his voice again, sharp and full of ritual.
"Before the Light shines upon you, confess. Repent, and your soul shall ascend to heaven, where the Radiant One dwells in everlasting peace."
The crowd hushed again, waiting.
The woman suddenly tilted her head back and let out a laugh. It was not a scream, not a sob, but a laugh— deep, clear, and laced with scorn.
"What I seek is truth," she roared, "not the false promises of your Radiant God! You worship a cage made of light! Burn me if you must! I'll watch your heaven fall in flames!"
The reaction was instant.
"She mocks the Luminar!"
"Blasphemy! Burn the witch!"
"She deserves worse!"
"She cursed the cathedral! She cursed all of us!"
The Luminar did not react. He merely held up his hand once more, and the frenzy froze in place.
Dusk looked again at the platform. Something strange caught his eye. There was no firewood beneath her. No pile of logs. Just the woman, the stake, and a flat surface.
How are they going to burn her?
He turned to ask, but no one was listening.
The Luminar began to pray.
"O Light of the World, hear our plea. Cast down your judgment. Cleanse this soul with your holy fire."
Then it happened.
The sun-shaped charm in the Luminar's hand erupted with light. It wasn't a flicker or glow—it burst like a small sun had bloomed from his palm. The brilliance blinded Dusk instantly. His arms shot up to cover his sister's eyes.
Beams of radiant energy shot towards the witch.
The light turned into something different.
Then it fell upon the stake like a divine sword.
With a whoosh, fire exploded around the woman.
Flames roared higher than a man's height, spiraling in hues of red and gold. They wrapped around her, devouring her robes and flesh in seconds.
Yet she didn't scream.
She laughed. Laughed and cursed even as her skin blackened.
"In the flames," she cried, "I will see your paradise destroyed!"
"In the flames, your grand cathedral shall fall!"
"In the flames, you will be damned forever!"
Her voice rang like a funeral bell— sharp, bitter, unforgettable— sending shivers down the spines of everyone present.
Even after her body had turned to ashes and the flames had died down, it felt as though her voice still echoed in the air, haunting the square like a lingering curse.
Dawn trembled, clutching Dusk tightly and burying her face in his chest. He held her protectively, his arms wrapped around her small frame.
But he didn't look away.
His eyes remained fixed on the spot where the witch had burned.