As noon approached, Bossia descended the steps in front of the Holy Light Cathedral. Before her eyes, the square's pool shimmered with white light; a girl bent down, lifting the corner of her skirt and lightly touching the water's surface with her left index finger.
—The movement was gentle, without a ripple on the water's surface. Then the girl raised her sweaty forehead, smiling as if eager to inform someone nearby that the water was refreshingly cool, just as anticipated. Her gaze accidentally met Bossia's beyond the digital realm; her lips pursed inwardly, replacing the smile. She straightened up, slightly lowering her head.
This was an unconscious evasion, something Bossia had grown accustomed to. More than half of the people in the square would have similar reactions, and those who were unaware of her background would eventually do the same. Those standing a little farther away, or those facing her from the side or behind, could calmly and continuously gaze at her.
She thought, eight years ago, most of these people wouldn't have cared whether Benedictus's goddaughter was named Bossia Wislanzo; now, they would be happy to judge what kind of person she was in this brief glance, and they would be happy to tell their friends "compared to eight years ago, how she was," even if they had never seen her before.
Amidst these subtle conversations from all around, Bossia occasionally heard these words: traitor, apostate, impostor. She knew her hearing was much sharper than eight years ago. That was good, it provided her with the strength she needed.
An eighty-year-old hunched man approached. One of the guards behind Bossia stepped forward, blocking him.
"Step back," the guard said.
The old man just stared at her. His eyes were cloudy.
"Step back," the guard, suspecting the old man might be deaf, repeated.
"What do you feed her?" the old man said. "Where does she sleep?"
"None of your business," the guard pushed the old man with the scabbard.
"She cannot stay in the Holy Light Cathedral," the old man said, "she cannot stay..."
He didn't insist too much on his accusation. After the guard pushed him a second time, the old man stepped back several steps, stood still, only his eyes still looking this way.
"Maybe we shouldn't take the main road," another guard behind Bossia said.
"No," Bossia said without turning around. "It takes too much time."
The two guards glanced at each other, having no choice but to comply. They were both senior paladins of the Cathedral Guard, but this position that didn't require them to go to war had never given them much authority.
Their destination wasn't far: the Security Bureau Prison on the artificial island in the center of the canal. Its history was longer than the largest prison in the city. Many people thought it was foolish to build a prison here, as it could be seen from the Storm Fortress and the Cathedral's heights, which was quite unsightly. Of course, there were also people with the opposite view. Our city embraces everything, our left eye can see nobility, bliss, and banquets, while our right eye can see debasement, shackles, and withering.
Boarding, crossing the river, landing. As Bossia looked up at the towers on either side of the prison, she wiped the sweat from her forehead. It was emitted due to the healthy sunlight and was not unpleasant. If it were in Silithus, every drop of sweat would be like a drop of blood. They would dye the sand beneath their feet red.
"Go in, Miss Bossia," the guard said.
The person at the reception desk only glanced at Bossia once during the entire procedure. He scratched his eyebrow with his persistent pen hand, as if it could make him more focused.
"You two, please wait here," he said to Bossia's guards, "it's the rule here. I'll have someone take her in."
"Can you guarantee her safety?" the guard asked.
"Oh, there's nothing to worry about. Our inmates here are very well-behaved... I mean, well-behaved. Most of them are likely to get parole. Besides, the floor where the young lady is going is very quiet."
"Well, thank you both." Bossia said to the two guards before the guiding warder arrived.
The guards didn't have any appropriate response, nor did they need one. After one of them nodded briefly at her, they turned back towards the gate. Within the shadowed walls of the prison, their golden shoulder pads shimmered with a hint of blue.
Half a minute later, the registrar said to the incoming warder, "Take Miss Bossia to cell number 714... 715." He flipped open the register again, glanced at it, and closed it. "715."
The warder seemed unaware of what her name meant. He scrutinized her for a moment. "Let's go," he said.
Cell 715 was on the top floor. Bossia followed the warder up the winding stone stairs. It was indeed a quiet prison; the loudest noise in Bossia's ears came from the jingling keychain around the warder's waist. The keys hung on a loose string, so Bossia began to imagine what it would be like if she were to take the keys— it would be easy— and then release as many prisoners as possible. Of course, she didn't think she was the right person for the job, but she knew who was.
Eight years ago, when Bossia spent her first night in a cell, she thought the trauma would forever root itself in her mind. In fact, she even doubted whether she could survive that night without going insane. She could only sit against the wall on a straw mat, enduring the sudden itchiness covering her skin, mistaking a small insect crawling up her neck for a sickle lurking in the darkness, fearing it would easily sever her golden-red hair; and any noise from the adjacent cell would bring her worst imaginations to life. But now she couldn't fully recall the terror she felt at that time, just as an adult wouldn't fear the doll placed by their bedside when they were children. In Gadgetzan, she endured hunger and exposure in an iron cage alongside the rotting corpse of a female orc named Sharl; in Silithus, she endured something else under another name. When she became Bossia Wislanzo again, this name that had once received the blessing of Archbishop Benedictus was already tainted with other colors. She wasn't proud of it, nor was she ashamed.
They reached their destination floor. Now, only one inmate was held on this floor. The warder pointed her in the direction; she headed towards cell 715. At the entrance to the corridor, three rows of guards stood in pairs, their crossed axes parted.
All prisons, even those newly built and never used, exuded a particular atmosphere; before it, blood and decay were secondary. In this ancient prison, this atmosphere lingered. Bossia had read in books when she was young that some of the most famous prisoners from the early days of Stormwind were once held on this floor, which had brought her both fear and a sense of mystery at the time; but now, she completely disregarded those childish thoughts. She quickened her pace. There was a strange tingling sensation in her feet.
Cell 715. Bossia stood still, her left hand touching the iron grille, then immediately retracting it. There were no windows in the cell, and the light in the corridor didn't help her see inside clearly.
It took some effort for her to make out the figure inside. He seemed deliberately seated out of the reach of the light.
"Panthonia," she said.
After a moment, because she wasn't sure if he had heard the voice from eight years ago, Bossia had to say it again.