Yrne gasped for air, their eyes were wide open, and realization began to slowly set in as they tried to move, only to find themselves restricted by the ropes around their limbs.

  “What in the name of the Magi do you think you’re doing?” Yrne asked, their voice shaking with a mixture of anger and surprise. They were yet to know to be afraid…

  Kanrel knew that there would be no reply to almost any of Yrne’s questions or even their pleas… Yet a long sigh escaped Ignar’s lips, “They would always use our name against my actions, never knowing that this was done through my will and because of our belief in the so-called inevitable…”

  Ignar shuddered, “It reminds me of something from so long ago… You know, before they were burned by Kalma, his most ardent believers would always pray to him for salvation… They would beg and pray for their god to save them…”

  “I hated myself because of this. It made me believe that I would become like him. That I already am like him.”

  Yrne’s anger flared, for he could not hear any of the things that Ignar had just said… this was a recollection after all, a memory. “You mongrel! You moron, let me out of these binds at once!” They screamed, but through this one could see the obvious: a shaky smile emerged from beneath their anger, and they jerked toward Ignar…

  This moment of triumph that they had imagined was soiled by the fact that nothing happened. They were supposed to be free from their binds, and multiple codes should’ve, by now, formed and attacked Ignar from each angle.

  Their imagined triumph faded, and another expression formed itself upon their face. Bewilderment, their eyes shook violently, and their gaze searched for something ahead of them, within them, that could save them. Yrne was unable to do anything.

  “None of them could do a thing. No Sharan, Atheian, or human alike could ever go against me. In my life, there were only a few who could. But only I have survived…” Ignar explained, “You’ve done something similar to what I have done here. I have completely and utterly nullified their ability to use magic. Whenever they would try anything at all, their magics would just fade away, as if they never existed in the first place…”

  “By this moment in Sharan history, most had forgotten that such an ability existed. After all, the practice of dueling fell out of favor, only allowed between those convicted of crimes deemed evil enough.”

  “But then again, nullifying their ability to use magic means nothing in the first place. It isn’t like they would be able to damage me in any way whatsoever.”

  Ignar sighed again as he listened to Yrne’s useless pleas. By now, the cold air around them had grown more intense. Yrne’s face was pale, their lips shook uncontrollably, and so did the rest of their body. They could no longer fight, their clothes had begun to freeze, and so did their hair…

  “Please…” They whimpered, with great effort, “I’ll do… anything…”

  Ignar shook his head, “Would they really? I wonder, I truly wonder… If given the chance to live their life another way, would there be considerable change to the way in which they conduct themselves?”

  “Would Yrne here even deserve such a chance?” He asked, “I don’t think so. For who am I to forgive a crime done to another? Who am I to forgive in place of someone who has lost their ability to do so?”

  “Corruption, even when I see it as the reason why they were allowed to commit these crimes, still remains not nearly as abhorrent and evil as the murders and rapes that he committed… Their victims weren’t alive to prosecute them, nor forgive if they could somehow find within their hearts the ability to forgive something so unforgivable.”

  The last moments of lucidity flashed within Yrne’s eyes, but soon they closed them. They had grown so tired. They felt so warm when surrounded by this cold that had made him shiver and plead so uselessly. It was a warmth they did not deserve, yet received either way. Yrne had entered their final sleep. They seemed at peace, tied to that chair.

  Ignar shook his head once more, “This isn’t nearly the worst thing that I have done.” They turned around, only to show Kanrel another view of something entirely different…

  A cramped area in the District of Copper, halfway down the slope, a section known as Olruan Street. Multiple buildings formed this opening of sorts, a crossroad that connected the small alleyways into one shared “street.”

  The sun had set long ago, and no sound could be heard in this dirty confluence of alleyways. It smelled like shit.

  “Wiltem Torna partook in the exchange of weaponry.” Ignar finally spoke after a while, “He sold them to the highest bidder, usually to different criminal organizations, most of which worked under the far richer members of N’Sharan.”

  “This was something that would have been dealt with long ago, if not for the corruption of individuals like Wiltem… I would know. He and many of those who I removed were members of the Office of Peace.”

  He took a step into an alleyway, “I contacted him, claiming to be someone who wanted to buy powerful explosives… Then I hid here, and awaited…”

  A figure walked in from the opening of Olruan Street from the main street. A tall Sharan emerged from the dimly lit main street, carrying a box in their hands and their usual uniform. Light armor, most of which was covered with red cloth—a tabard garnished with three heads of the same beast, one of which had fangs and its tongue stuck out. Their face glittered in the last embrace of the dim street lights, a small amount of scales allowed this, but as they entered the dark confluence of Olruan Street, a dark shadow was cast on their face, hiding their expression. The Sharan placed the box on the ground and stretched soon after. They then sat on it and waited for the person they were supposed to meet.

  “I am not proud of the actions that I’ve done, the crimes that I have committed. No matter how much I try to justify them, I believe that I should never have been the one to take justice into my own hands and dish it out as I saw fit.”

  “But what is one to do if the system around fails to protect the most vulnerable? As one of the Magi, is it not my duty to ensure peace for all—even if it means denying peace, even life, to some?” Ignar stepped from his hiding place, emerging from the darkness to stand before Wiltem Torna.

  The Sharan stood up from the box with a grin on their face, “I do believe the product will be most satisfactory…” They said and winked at Ignar. “Although, I don’t quite know why you need so much of it…” They then shrugged, “But it is not for me to question nor to worry about…” Their grin widened, “Now about the price—” They began but soon found out that they could not move their jaw, nor their lips. In fact, they could not move their body at all. Even their eyelids were forced to remain open as they saw Ignar approach them.

  “The box is filled with enough explosives to completely annihilate something like Café N’Sharan…” Ignar mentioned, then stopped right in front of Wiltem, “I wonder how many people lost their lives because of the weapons and explosives that they had sold without caring who they would be used against?”

  “And because of this, I now believed that I had been far too generous to them…” He muttered and, in a swift motion, cut their right hand at Wiltem’s throat, not touching it, only slicing the air near their throat.

  Nothing happened at first, but then blood burst from their throat, soon forming into a waterfall of blood that flowed down their body, puddling into a pool under their feet. Ignar shook their head and turned around, “The explosives, I simply threw into the ocean.”

  And when they turned around, an open ocean view extended as far as the eye could see. The rays of the morning sun glittered upon the waves, garnishing it with hues of gold. A moment of peace and beauty. They stood upon the walls of N’Sharan, overseeing the city as well as the ocean past its walls.

  “Somehow, I have done worse. Somehow, I have not done enough.” Ignar spoke after a long moment of silence, as the waves struck against the wall in a gentle motion. It was far too peaceful.

  “I wonder, what would you have done if you had been in my place? Would you have tried to be as moral and just as possible? Would you have lost your way as I did? Would you have found that at the end of your life, there would be no regret for the things you have done, nor for the things you didn’t do?” His voice trembled as he asked his questions. Even when they were directed at Kanrel, they somehow felt like directed at himself. As if there would be a second chance. As if they could live their life again.

  Ignar sighed, “But this is enough, for now. There is only so much I can bear to show. Only so much that I’m willing to live through again… For there is more pain to come.” He grimaced, as a helpless laughter escaped their lips, “Somehow… this really isn’t the worst thing that I have done…”

  Together, they stared at the horizon for a while. Let there be peace, at least on the outside, for just this one moment. Let chaos tear them from within and leave the world as beautiful as it always has been.

  A slight smile anchored itself onto Ignar’s lips as he brought his hands to cover his lips, forming a cup from them, into which he whistled. One long note, one similar to the howling wind on a cold winter day. But as the note sustained, Kanrel lost his vision; he could no longer see through the eyes of Ignar… Instead, he entered another dark place, this one just wasn’t absolute… As slivers of light flickered above him, as if it were the sun, glittering past the branches of a dark forest. But then the branches made way for the light, they departed and showcased that they weren’t branches, but instead scaly fingers of Ignar.

  Kanrel emerged from this momentary darkness, a golden butterfly that fluttered toward the horizon and the morning sun. The whistle had stopped, and he could only hear the waves beneath him and the gentle wind against which he flew. Behind him, he could imagine the grand walls of the city, as well as the angel known as Ignar Orcun, watching him fly away for now.

  The sun grew in its size as he approached, unable to control his direction. The butterfly still didn’t care for where Kanrel wanted to go, or what he wanted to see. It only flew in a direction it wanted to reach… The sun that grew and grew, soon becoming all that he could see… A great light that lit the world and gave it all its colors. So bright and beautiful, so warm is its embrace. It should burn him, it ought to burn him to a crisp, but it did not…

  And instead of entering the sun, the butterfly emerged from it. The light was left behind them, and beyond it, another view of another part of N’Sharan came to be. A Sharan walked down a street during the night. A person whose job was to bring light to the city itself. Their eyes were sunken, and they were far too skinny for being as tall as they were. The butterfly flew toward this Sharan, it flew toward their forehead, it flew into it, and now, Kanrel could see the world through the eyes of another Sharan…

  A feeling washed over him. Blood ran through his veins, and his heart beat so warmly. The world was bright even when the sun had already set. But then... each sensation dulled down. He felt so light. He felt so… empty. He took a step forward, only to stumble and almost fall over. Thankfully, he found his footing and remained standing up.

  He began to cough violently, as though his throat was being ripped apart, like each cough would form another bloody wound within. From his pocket he dug an old tissue, it was dark red, perhaps slightly brown in its hue. He coughed into the tissue multiple times before the fit came to an end.

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  And as he was about to put it back into his pocket, he looked at it and grimaced. Spatters of blood glittered on its dirty surface. He returned it back to his pocket, so as not to look at it. So as not to think of it.

  He continued walking down the street, wobbling past a small shop into a dark alleyway. He took support from the wall as indescribable warmth bloomed within him. Shouldn’t he feel cold now? If death were to come, shouldn’t he feel so very cold? He collapsed against the wall. As he breathed, there were crackles, and he could barely breathe. He couldn’t even cough anymore. Before, the air coming in would’ve felt like an avalanche, then it had become a river, soon a creek, and now… drops of water, falling down from a roof to a small puddle.

  The lights… they were covered by a fog… When had it grown so dark? Something dribbled from his lips, down his jaw onto his clothes, but he could barely feel it.

  Everything stopped. The last feeling had been this strange warmth that had felt empty. His vision remained hazy and out of focus. Sounds existed, yet they were distant and unclear.

  Was seeing even this necessary? What did this have to do with him or Ignar?

  Soon, muffled steps came closer and stepped onto the alleyway. Two figures he could barely see, one was pretty small and the other was about a head taller, one of them said something, but Kanrel could only hear parts of it, “…clear…die… quickly…”

  They talked for a while before they lifted the dead Sharan from the ground, and the only thing he could hear clearly was this: “The city needs its lights… this is but a small price to pay…”

  It was another empty sensation, the motion caused by being carried by the two Sharan. As if upon the waves, washed away by them endlessly toward an unknown destination somewhere beyond the horizon. Adrift from life itself. It may be that in this body, he was dead, but this sensation… was it not how life felt to him before as well?

  As if floating on waters, certain and uncertain. He was just a fool in the grip of this senseless sensation. Like a slave to a memory, he sought to relive. Unable and without a reason to stop himself or to be stopped. Only looking inward, trying to find something within, a sense of meaning that would emerge from somewhere deep below your own skin.

  The serene waters around him were devoid of true change. There are only things which are certain and uncertain. On this untouched surface, he finds himself. Seeking waves that might lead him somewhere where there is change, where everything is certain in its change, where doubt would no longer haunt his mind, where life happens, not through the lens of yesterday, but through the lens of each given moment.

  If he were to sink, then he would drown. If he sank, in the end, he would forget, and there would be no such lens formed from the many lived yesterdays. If he were to sink, only one thing would be certain, and that would be death itself. But what follows after death? Now he barely knew.

  The sinking, neither forgetting nor drowning, none of these things could ever truly be certain. Nothing is certain. Nothing.

  With his arms crossed, he awaited something to happen, for this moment to go by. That this movement would bring him somewhere else, perhaps there would be a thought that would compel him away from these uncertain formations of loose yet connected thoughts.

  But nothing is certain, neither is this nor that. Not even the possibility of tomorrow is certain, not the rising of the sun and the glow it could create over these serene waters. Not the millions of colors that would gather on its surface to remind us of such concepts as beauty and dawn.

  Perhaps, someone would pull him out of this feeling. A receptive but demanding living thing that would either pull him below the surface or above it. For from beneath the waves, everything is distorted, but so is all he could see from the surface; surely that would be what he would see above all this.

  Here he was. In a moment like this, somewhere between death and life, floating in waters where only uncertain things are certain, but ultimately neither, he is and awaits something that might be truly certain. Something that would bring change. Something that would be immutable in its own change, a place where he could be at peace, where he could be free, not just from this feeling or this moment, but from everything and all that has made it what it is.

  But one can’t float endlessly. In the end, one will either sink or rise above these waters. One shall find oneself on dry land or in the depths of darkness. Yet, in the end, even this is not certain. There is nothing that could be certain, as all that happens happens at random, all without meaning or reason, other than the fact that it could happen; thus, why would it not happen? For if a thing can happen, then it ought to happen. And if it ought to happen, then it shall happen when one least expects it.

  He fell to the ground, and there was no other physical sensation except the motion of falling, but it did not stop when he so clearly hit the cobblestone street. Through hazy eyes, he could see how one of the Sharan pulled out from their pocket, with muffled sounds, a keychain. They browsed through it, one key at a time until they found the correct one. They said something Kanrel couldn’t really hear, and placed the key into its designated lock, opening its door with a creak of its hinges.

  The other replied something about affordable locks and hellish working conditions, for the other one only to scoff as reply as they began dragging him into the unlit room. The other Sharan walked past them and pressed something on the wall and soon, the massive storage room lit up, and Kanrel could see through these hazy eyes of this dead Sharan metallic barrels everywhere.

  He was dragged in further, and the doors soon closed behind him with another creak of the hinges. The body was dragged to a barrel, and the two Sharan lifted him and dropped him into the barrel.

  Sudden warmth all around him, a loud crackling sound as a violent reaction began scratching him apart. Flesh from bone stripped away, but there was no pain. There was just warmth. He lacked the sensation of pain. Yet he could feel how strips of his own flesh dissolved into the liquid that filled the barrel. It went on and on. He burned. First skin and hair, then flesh—muscle and bone—and his innards, until there was just bone left, but even that was made into nothing. Eaten by the liquid and the violent reaction that it caused. Everything he could feel, but it was not painful. Just unsettling, this feeling of being completely, physically unmade. Yet his mind remained in this once clear liquid that had become dark. The reaction ceased after a long while. Only a dull emptiness remained after.

  The two Sharan that had brought him here had departed long ago, and the lights had been turned off as well. Kanrel was left alone in a barrel without a physical body to inhabit. There was no other sensation except the memory of falling, the memory of warmth, and the memory of dissolvement, of being unmade. If before everything had been hazy, now it was just dark. If before, there had been the muffled existence of sound, now there was just silence. If before, there had been the feeling of being endlessly adrift upon the waves, now there was just motionlessness. Still. Everything had become still. Everything had become nothing, yet memory and the lens of yesterday still remained. For what else is a Man, except an unreliable collection of memories that persist in the actions and thoughts we make long after our sins?

  But if there is nothing, and nothing is certain, and which happens just because it can, without a point, without a meaning or a reason, then why does Man allow such meaningless things that he considers as sins to form what he is and will become?

  Such a question asked itself and placed itself forefront of the void. Another meaningless thing to ask, is it not? Why ponder when there is just the void? Why not lull yourself into a deep slumber, where such thoughts might not plague the mind of a weak Man? In darkness such as I, there is no judgment.

  There is no discontent. There is no discord. There remains just a singular melody to which we all tune ourselves. Nothing. Empty. A score of absolute silence stretched for nigh eternity.

  But there is something in the dark, there always is. Must there be? Always, for if there can be, then there must be…

  A singular speck of light flickered in this darkness. A brave fire of a lonesome candle it was. Its hue is somehow more present and stronger than the void itself. It was something to focus on. A memory of a yesterday long ago lived, now lived not once but perhaps thrice. A singular molecule of existence forced itself to become more real than a form of eternal darkness could ever be.

  At the forefront of his mind, of his meager existence, an angel emerged and forced itself at the center of all attention, even when Kanrel could not see, even when he could not hear, even when he had hoped for there to be eternal slumber.

  Their face was a mask of guilt, a god disgusted by their own existence, saddened eyes that mirrored his own regrets, yet greater than the sum of things that Kanrel could ever do. There was goodness within them, yet evil had made them hollow.

  “Perished, the lights in their eyes; they enter darkness, they enter death.” They lamented.

  “What have we done to become what we are?” Another question placed itself at the forefront of this void now lit by the presence of the very manifestation of light itself. They made a gesture, a sudden movement, and this light intensified, it stretched itself over this void, and it conquered its domain as if they had the power to control light and dark with just their will. The light blinded his mind; through this majestic brightness, he found himself blinded by it.

  “Forgive me,” a faraway whisper as his company, he at last departed this plane of existence. A wave of darkness flashed for just a moment. The light began to dim, and he felt once more; sensation itself existed; there was wind that touched his skin, there were smells, and there were sounds. There was existence.

  And when he could see once more, N’Sharan was no more, a field stretched itself before him, and he saw how hundreds of Sharan ran away from him, toward a forest. He felt how his hand rose, how it was pointed at the people running, how from his now palm surged a dark fire, how it pulsated and moved through the air, how it struck those who tried to run away. Fire engulfed them, fire removed them; their screams were short-lived, as one by one, every Sharan touched by the dark, twisting flames was set afire. They burned just for a moment, in agony, he knew they had experienced torment so magnificent that no other physical pain could compare. He felt a smile stretch itself onto his lips as he viewed his deeds. He turned around, away from the dead, away from the forest they had tried to reach, away from the field that stretched itself before him, away into the court, where a god sat upon an obsidian throne…

  A sigh parted his lips, “Kalma… the god I wished as my father…” Ignar spoke, “I suppose all of our sins are related to him. Everything we did was to spite him… Or so we like to claim, for who would want to blame themselves for the suffering and death brought to this world, if you can blame someone else…”