In the midst of a rainy overcast, a solemn atmosphere descends, enveloping the surroundings in a muted palette of greys and washed-out tones. The raindrops, like delicate tears from the heavens, cascade from the somber clouds, creating a gentle, rhythmic percussion that deepens the overall melancholy ambiance. The world feels distant, detached. The only source of light that pierces the gloom is the white glow of the stone tower that looms above the town, its brilliance casting long shadows across the drenched streets below.
Amidst this watery symphony, two figures emerge—one dressed in radiant white, a stark contrast to the dreary backdrop, and the other, a shadowed silhouette that blends seamlessly into the gloom.
Lucian's gaze shifts between the priest, adorned in immaculate white robes embroidered with symbols of purity, and the altar where his father's lifeless form lay motionless. A sense of futility grips him, tightening around his heart. What power does the shadow hold against the brilliance of light? It can only helplessly retreat, slipping away into the unseen places where the light does not reach.
His father, once a man full of life, now reduced to a body awaiting final absolution. The wind whispers softly, cold and indifferent, and the wet ground beneath Lucian's feet feels like it's slowly sinking under the weight of the moment. Everything in his life feels heavy, like the rain pressing down upon his skin.
The priest's voice breaks the silence, reverberating through the desolate scene as he opens the ancient book in his hands, its pages fluttering slightly in the breeze.
"In the sacred invocation of the Goddess, embodiment of true purity, arbiter of benevolent charity, and the deliverer of ultimate salvation, we gather in reverence. In the hallowed name of the Goddess, she who commands the fire of purity, the wealth of charity, and the death of salvation, we beseech thee. In the divine name of the Goddess, she who stands as the daughter, the mother, and the holy spirit, thy sins are hereby absolved."
The words seem to echo in the stillness, each syllable resonating with an otherworldly power. Lucian feels a strange pull, as if the ritual itself is drawing the essence of his father away, taking the remnants of a life once lived.
"As the veil of mortality descends upon thee," the priest continues, "all shall culminate in ultimate salvation. Through this apotheosis, the soul shall dissipate, and in its ultimate end, the vestiges of thee taint shall be no more. In the symphony of demise, with the ending of body, spirit, and mind, the ultimate price is paid, and thy magic is freed."
The words, spoken with such gravity, transcend the ordinary, invoking something greater than Lucian can comprehend. He wants to reach out, to say something, but the words die in his throat. His father's body, cold and still, begins to emit a faint glow. The magic of the ritual, the power of the Goddess, stirs to life, enveloping the corpse in shimmering light.
Lucian's heart pounds in his chest as the glow intensifies. Before his eyes, his father's body starts to dissolve into specks of light—small, delicate particles that rise upward like sparks from a dying fire. For a fleeting moment, it's as if his father is becoming one with the light, freed from the chains of the world.
Lucian stands frozen, unable to move or tear his eyes away as his father's physical form disintegrates, leaving behind only the faint glimmer of what once was. Then, as the last specks of light fade into the overcast sky, the ritual comes to its inevitable end.
All that remains is a metal heart, gleaming faintly where his father's body once lay. Cold, unfeeling, it is the only relic of the man who had been his father. The heart pulses softly, as if echoing the final vestiges of magic that had once flowed through his veins. It lies there, lifeless but strangely alive, a testament to the price his father had paid—his soul sacrificed, his magic freed.
Lucian remains, staring down at the metal heart—his father's last trace of existence in this world. Gazing at the heart, Lucian couldn't help but ponder how they had reached such a moment. The recollection of his father reading fairytales by his bedside remained vivid in his mind. His parents used to proclaim that Lucian was the star that had fallen from the sky just for them.
But then it happened. Since Lucian's mother's passing, his father became a different person—withdrawn, moody, seeking solace in alcohol and dream elixirs. He would lash out whenever Lucian mentioned his mother's noble family and their offer of a better life or probed into the circumstances of her demise. They said it was an attack by Fell entity, but his father seemed to believe otherwise. Lucian was only fourteen then, and the past, once a source of pain, seemed to have settled into irrelevance.
The priest's face remained emotionless as he closed the book with a resounding thud, the sound echoing through the cold, damp air. "It is done," he said solemnly.
Lucian looked up, noticing something different about the priest. He seemed older, more worn, with a few more wrinkles etched around his eyes. All magic has a price, Lucian reminded himself. The price of final salvation is to be "saved" oneself. In simpler terms, the priest had paid for the act of cleansing the taint from his father's magic with a piece of his own life. Priests of the Goddess do not live long, burdened as they are by this final act of purification, a quiet and inevitable death that comes for them bit by bit.
The rain continued to fall, indifferent to the grief in Lucian's heart. It tapped rhythmically on the stone pavement, as if mocking his loss. He stood there, drenched and alone, the weight of finality settling in. The man who once read him bedtime stories, the man who had shielded him from the darkness of the world, was gone. Truly gone.
The priest, seemingly oblivious to Lucian's inner turmoil, turned toward him. "A metal heart," he said, gesturing to the gleaming object left behind where his father's body once lay. "We seem to have found the reason for his death. It's rare, and unfortunate, for the heart to be affected by such magic. The heart holds great significance in magic, especially this kind. He must have had quite the story."
The priest's eyes narrowed as he assessed the heart. "Nine gold and seven silver, and you may keep the remains," he said with a faint, pitiful smile, as though the price was fair, but the situation anything but.
Lucian stared at the heart, unable to comprehend its importance in that moment. Nine gold and seven silver was an impossible sum for a eighteen-year-old. In a world like theirs, the living must live for the living. Yet these were the rules.
Anyone who became a cursed - magic user of this world - must be purified by the priest of Goddess after death to prevent the taint within their magic from contaminating others or creating Fells. Of course, such sacrifice on the behalf of the priest are not free. They must be compensate with the remains of Cursed or money. The magic within the body of the cursed will be mostly freed from the taint and will coalesce in some form, often in the form of the price that they paid for their magic.
"I think you can keep it," a voice cut through the rain-soaked gloom.
Lucian turned, startled. A tall, incredibly handsome man approached, moving with an air of confidence. Though clearly older, he looked not much different in age from Lucian himself.
"Uncle Taren," Lucian gasped, instinctively bowing in respect, as was required when greeting a noble.
Taren nodded, acknowledging Lucian with a slight smile. His presence was striking, not just because of his looks, but because of the commanding aura he exuded—one that came naturally to those born of the Ezekiel bloodline.
He turned to the priest. "His father could hardly be considered a Touched. Three gold is the most you'll get," Taren said dismissively.
Magic users are widely known as the Cursed due to the taint or price that comes with all magic. Depending on the amount of magic and how deeply they are affected, the Cursed can be subdivided into the Touched, the Marked, and the Transformed. There are more powerful entities known as the Transcendents... Touched are those that have obtained temporary or single-use magic.
The priest frowned, as if wanting to argue, but thought better of it. After a moment, he forced a smile, filled with bitterness. "It's yours, then. Well… not for…" His voice trailed off, a dangerous edge creeping in.
"You'll choose your words carefully," Taren interrupted, his eyes narrowing, a clear warning.
The priest, visibly swallowing his frustration, nodded stiffly. "Of course, my lord." He took the three gold coins from Taren and handed the metal heart to Lucian before hastily retreating under Taren's watchful gaze.
Once the priest was gone, Taren turned his attention back to Lucian, offering a sigh that was both solemn and somehow condescending. "My condolences for all that has happened," he said softly, though a strange smile crept across his face. "Your father and I always had… some misunderstandings. But that's in the past now. We must look to the future."
Taren's eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity. "Come and work at the Ezekiel estate," he offered. "I'll pay you one golden dragon a week. It should help you through this difficult time."
Lucian's mind raced. One golden dragon a week was an unimaginable sum for someone like him. "I would be honored," he said, stumbling over his words. "But… this is too much. I can't accept it."
"Don't be foolish." Taren waved away his hesitation. "Look at you—if I didn't know better, I'd think you were a beggar off the street, not my nephew." His eyes scanned Lucian critically, his expression twisting into one of disgust. "Your skin is cracked and dry, and you've gained weight. This is unbecoming of someone with Ezekiel blood."
With a flick of his wrist, Taren tossed another golden coin toward Lucian—half a year's worth of his previous earnings as a toymaker. "Go make yourself presentable before you come to the estate tomorrow. We have standards to maintain," he said sharply before turning to leave.
"Yes, of course," Lucian mumbled, clutching the coins in his hand. As Taren walked away, Lucian stared at the golden coins, disbelief swirling in his mind. A quarter Ezekiel by blood, this offer was beyond anything he could have expected. Illegitimate children of the Ezekiel family were not uncommon, but Lucian's situation seemed unusually fortunate. The pay Taren offered surpassed that of 99% of the outer district residents, with only the cursed and the richer merchants possibly earning more.
The rain persisted, soaking through Lucian's worn coat as he walked away from the fading light of the Tower of Pure Fire. With each step, the glow behind him dimmed, the warmth and radiance of the inner district slipping further into the distance. The streets around him began to narrow, their cobblestones uneven and coated in grime. The farther he walked, the filthier the world became, until he found himself among the shadowed alleyways of the outer district. Here, the light of the Tower barely reached, leaving the less fortunate to fester in twilight and darkness.
The inner district, protected by the radiant flames, was a world of wealth and power, where the noble and privileged basked in luxury. Out here, however, it was a different story. In the shadows of cramped, crumbling buildings, he saw them—the huddled masses, people stripped of hope, reduced to something less than human. They clung to survival, selling what little they had left: their souls. The beggars were more like soulless husks, living out a slow death as they burned their very lives for the fleeting comforts of magic.
These beggars were all Cursed too, even considered to be "priests" of the Goddess as well. However unlike the Priests of Salvation who granted the pure, final salvation that had been bestowed upon Lucian's father, these beggars were the lowest of the low, seen as both pitiable and detestable by the rest of society.
Approaching one of the curled-up figures, Lucian saw a fat man with sunken eyes, his skin cracked and dry, resembling a riverbed scorched by drought. One of his hands were missing and a leg appeared burnt. The man's eyes glinted with raw, desperate emotions—desire, greed, lust.
"Kind sir," the beggar croaked, his voice thick with need. "Please, take pity on me. Spare a coin."
With a heavy heart, Lucian knelt and placed a golden coin in front of the beggar. It wasn't a trivial amount - it was enough money for a family to live on for months, but the ritual required it. He reminded himself that this was no longer half a year's worth of wages, though it felt no less heavy in his hand.
"Oh, bless you," the beggar whispered, his cracked lips parting in a twisted smile. "Bless you, bless you, may the Goddess, the sacred maiden of benevolent charity, bless you for your kindness. May I carry your burden and bear it as my own in repayment."
As the beggar spoke, Lucian felt the magic take hold. The ritual began, a subtle exchange of energies that Lucian barely felt—but its effects were immediate. His skin regained its youthful luster, the dry, cracked patches smoothing into softness. His fatigue vanished, along with the gnawing hunger that had been his constant companion. His body felt lighter, rejuvenated.
But as the magic restored Lucian, the beggar's condition worsened. His skin cracked further, and his frame seemed to swell with unhealthy weight. This was the exchange, Lucian's charity of gold and his charity of carrying Lucian's taint.
The beggar barely seemed to notice his changes, his eyes gleaming as he snatched up the coin and staggered away, already planning how to spend his brief windfall.
"Get a good meal," Lucian called after him, knowing his words would fall on deaf ears. "And somewhere to sleep before you waste it on dream liquid."
He knew better, though. The man would likely spend it all on dream liquid—a vile concoction that allowed the user to escape reality and live in their perfect world for a short while. It wouldn't last. Soon enough, the man would return to the streets, his body ravaged by the addiction. Lucian judged by the man's appearance that his time was running short. He would likely turn into a Fell, a creature consumed by the taint within magic in a matter of months, perhaps weeks. The guards would come for him before that happened, though. They always did.
Their bodies were too far gone with the price, it was no longer worth purifying. They'd incinerate him in the Flame of the Goddess, just like real Fells.
Lucian wrapped his coat tighter around himself and continued on his way. The cold wind howled, carrying the scent of decay and desperation through the narrow streets. There was little he could do for those left behind. Certain things couldn't be helped in this world, and Lucian needed to survive—he had to help himself first, or he'd end up like the rest of them.
As he walked deeper into the outer district, the shadows seemed to stretch further, the light of the Tower now only a faint memory behind him. His footsteps echoed against the crumbling walls, a reminder that in a world of curses and power, even the smallest of luxuries came at the steepest of prices.