Saving Sir Aric Thorne

The priest’s voice rang through the courtyard, smooth as polished gold, sharp as a drawn blade. "Faith is a fire. It burns away the weak, the wicked, the unworthy." John listened from his place in the crowd, his hood low, his body still. "And there is no one more wicked than the man who wears the Empress’s armor, but does not wear her faith."

The crowd murmured, shifting uneasily as Sir Aric Thren was **** to his knees.

His face was swollen, bloody, one eye near shut, his lip split and crusted red. His Sentinel tabard hung in tatters, the sigil of the Argent Order barely visible beneath the filth and blood.

Two Sentinels flanked him, their grips tight on his arms, holding him in place before the assembled priesthood.

The high priest stepped forward, his mask smooth, unchanging, hollow. "Sir Aric Thren," he announced, his voice like cold steel against flesh. "You were given your life by the Empress’s grace. You were entrusted with her law. And yet, you have turned against her."

The crowd stirred, whispers hissing through the gathered onlookers.

"For your treason, for your blasphemy, for your faithless heart—" The priest spread his arms, his golden robes catching the torchlight. "You shall burn."

The whispers turned to murmurs, to quiet shock.

Even in the dying empire, a Sentinel burning was rare.

It was a spectacle—a warning.

Aric spat blood onto the stone, laughing. It was a low, rasping thing, half-pain, half-madness. A voice raw, but steady, spoke "This is not faith." The priest’s head tilted, mask reflecting the fire. Aric bared his teeth in a bloody grin. "You think you serve the Empress? You think she would want this?" His voice rose, hoarse but defiant. "You wear her name like a brand, but you do not serve her."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

The Sentinels flanking him stiffened.

The priest said nothing.

Aric kept going.

"You do not worship her. You worship her silence. You twist her absence into power." He tried to push forward, but the Sentinels held him fast. "You—" he choked on blood, spat again, voice growing wild—"You burn her name into flesh, you break bones in her honor, but this—this is not the will of the Eternal Empress!"

A fist crashed into his gut. He gasped, coughing, doubled over.

Another blow. A knee to his ribs.

One of the Sentinels drove a boot into his stomach, knocking him onto the stone.

They kicked him again. And again.

The crowd shrank back, some turning away, others watching with silent unease.

John stayed still. The voice in his head stayed silent.

The kicking continued until the priest lifted a hand. The Sentinels halted immediately, their discipline as sharp as their steel.

Aric groaned, curling onto his side, coughing wetly.

The priest took a slow, deliberate step forward. "Blasphemy is not defense." His golden mask stared down, impassive. "You will burn, Sir Aric Thren." The priest turned, lifting his arms toward the watching crowd. "And in his fire, your faith will be renewed."

The crowd stirred again, but none dared speak.

John exhaled slowly.

This had just become a bigger problem.

John stayed still, watching.

The crowd shifted uneasily, murmuring, as the priest turned away from Sir Aric’s broken body, lifting his hands toward the heavens as if to receive some divine blessing. "Faith is a fire," the priest repeated. "And so, we shall burn away the doubt."

John already knew how this would end.

The wood would be stacked, the flames would rise, and the screams would carry through the streets before dawn.

Aric Thren would die, and with him, the only lead John had.

The Sentinels dragged Aric up from the stone, gripping him like a sack of meat, his head lolling forward, blood dripping from his mouth. They bound his wrists in rusted chains, forcing him to walk between them, their hands tight on his arms.

John let himself drift into the crowd, moving with them, his hood low, his gaze following without following.

He had done this before. Trailing men without being seen, hunting men who thought they were the hunters.

The priest gave no further words. The spectacle was over. The audience had received its sermon, its warning. Now, the real punishment would begin.

The procession moved, the Sentinels marching in unison, their heavy steel boots striking the stone in perfect rhythm.

John followed from the edges, drifting through the narrow alleys, using the wavering lantern light and the shifting bodies to his advantage.

They led Aric through the lower district of the Radiant Ward, past the grand temples, the Luminous Halls, and toward a darker place.

A place he recognized. The Black Sepulcher. He exhaled, slow.

A prison. But not just any prison.

The Black Sepulcher was where the Church sent men to break.

Where whispers turned into screams and faith was carved into flesh until even the strongest begged for absolution.

He scanned the walls first, looking for weakness. Any cracked stone, any loose mortar, any breach where time and negligence had done his job for him. Nothing. The Sepulcher was built too well. The Church’s cruelty was matched only by its efficiency. He glanced at the gate, the guards, their formation. They stood like statues, unmoving, their silvered armor catching only slivers of light. No one entered without a reason. No one left without permission.

John turned his gaze toward the surrounding streets, watching the people.

The Radiant Ward was quieter at night, but there were still priests moving through the roads, still Sentinels patrolling, still whispers in the dark.

Men passed without glancing at the Sepulcher, their heads bowed, their feet moving faster when they drew near.

He exhaled, slow. His time was short. But he was a patient man. He would find a way.

The voice came soft this time, drifting through his mind like a leaf caught in the current of a slow river. "What are you looking at?"

John didn't flinch. He had expected her return.

His eyes remained on the Black Sepulcher, tracing its edges, its walls too smooth, its shadows too deep.

"A prison," he answered in his head.

A pause. Then, the faintest tremor in her voice. "A prison? For whom?"

"Heretics. Doubters. Men the Church does not find useful anymore."

The voice was silent for a long moment. "Faith should not be a knife."

John exhaled slowly, keeping his expression neutral, his stance loose. "Faith is a weapon. Always has been. The only difference is who’s holding it."

"No," the voice murmured, softer now, sadder. "Faith should be light. Not fire."

He almost laughed at that. "That’s not how men use it."

She didn’t answer at first. When she finally did, her voice was quiet, wounded. "They twist it."

"They always do."

"It hurts to see."

That made him pause. "Why does it hurt?"

The voice hesitated. "I... I don’t know."

There it was again.

That frayed uncertainty, the feeling that she was something, someone, but could not grasp it.

John’s jaw tensed. "Do you remember who you are yet?"

A long silence.

Then—"No."

"Then you’re not much help."

"Perhaps not. But..."

The voice shifted, something like a distant memory surfacing.

"This place... There is something about this place."

John stilled slightly. "You remember it?"

"No. Not fully. But..."

A faint hum. "It is not entirely honest."

John’s brow furrowed. "Not honest?"

"Illusions," she murmured.

That got his attention. His eyes narrowed. "You’re sure?"

"I... feel it. Not with sight. But I know it is there."

John glanced back toward the Sepulcher, his thoughts shifting, recalculating. Illusions.

That changed things. It meant there could be doors hidden from sight, weak points woven into magic rather than stone. It meant the way in was not where his eyes told him. He sighed. "I’ll look."

A soft hum of acknowledgment—then, just as quickly as she came, she was gone.

John had been searching for hours. The sky had darkened, the torches along the streets burning low and tired, flickering against the oppressive weight of the Black Sepulcher’s walls. He had moved slowly, methodically, his gaze sweeping the stone, the shadows, the places where things felt… off.

He had found it. A seam in the illusion.

It wasn’t much, just a flicker, a place where the stone blurred ever so slightly. But it was there. A lie stitched into reality. He pressed forward. The air shimmered, the wall rippled like water disturbed by a stone, and suddenly—there it was. An archway. A door. Hidden by magic, woven into the very shape of the Sepulcher.

John didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside.

Inside, the air was thick, stale, damp with something old and unwashed. The walls were smooth, dark stone, the corridors silent, save for the distant murmur of Sentinel boots echoing from deeper within.

John moved quietly, his breath slow, his steps soundless. Everything here was calculated suffering.

The halls were too narrow, the ceilings too low, meant to press in on the men who walked them. The torches burned weakly, the flames dull and colorless, as if even fire itself was subdued in this place.

He pressed forward, keeping to the shadows, analyzing everything—the exits, the paths of the guards, the way the air tasted of rust and sweat.

He flattened himself against a pillar, listening. Two Argent Sentinels stood near a stairwell, their backs toward him, their voices low and casual.

“…what’s taking so long?” one muttered, voice gruff.

The other grunted. “Priests want him alive for the burning.”

“That’s a waste,” the first one said. “Should’ve just cut his throat when they dragged him in.”

A dry chuckle. “You know how they are. Theatrics.”

A pause. “You sure we’re his escort?”

“That’s what they said. Soon as the priest’s done, we march him to the stake.”

The first grunted again.

“Well, fuck. I need to piss before that.” He turned, muttering something about the latrines, stepping away from his partner.

John was already moving. The Sentinel walked carelessly, unbuckling his belt as he stepped into a side chamber, a darkened alcove where the stone dipped into an old, unused washroom.

His helmet hung loose on his head, his sword still belted to his hip.

He never saw John move behind him. Never felt the blade slide between his ribs. Just a sharp hitch of breath, a sudden, awful realization, and then—silence.

John lowered him carefully, making sure the body didn’t collapse too loudly. A flick of his wrist, and the bloodied blade disappeared back into its sheath.

He worked quickly. Stripping the Sentinel’s armor, buckling the pieces over his own clothes. The helmet came last.

It smelled like iron and sweat. But it fit well enough.

He stood, adjusting the weight on his shoulders.

Then he turned, stepping back toward the hall, where the other guard still waited. "About fucking time," the man muttered, not even looking up. "You piss out half the wine in Vessun’s Rest?"

John didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

He simply stepped into place.

The escort was ready.

And soon, Sir Aric would be, too.