Chapter 60:

The Prelate reached into the folds of his robes and produced a parchment, unrolling it with a theatrical flourish. Inked upon it, golden script shimmered unnaturally. Nick suspected it was the same kind used to keep track of kids before the class ceremony—the only problem was that adults shouldn’t have needed it. The fact that the temple held such a record of beastmen made it even clearer that they were not trusted.“Let us begin,” Marthas intoned calmly. He seemed almost oblivious to the crowd’s tension. He glanced at the list, then called out the first name. “Grathen.”

A heavy silence followed as a bearkin stepped forward, whose broad shoulders were hunched under the weight of hundreds of eyes. He was massive, even among his kind, with fur the color of tarnished copper and a face set in a permanent scowl. Yet even he looked unnerved as he approached the Prelate, hesitantly leaving the safety of the crowd.

“Present yourself,” Marthas ordered, gesturing for Grathen to stop a few feet away.

He straightened up as much as he could, clasping his hands together. “Grathen Ironhide,” he rumbled. It was clearly forced, but Nick had to give the man credit for not sounding nervous. He knew him to be an adventurer, which probably explained his steely nerves, but even those were little more than gnats before a Prestige Class.

Marthas nodded approvingly, and a faint, almost fatherly smile curled his lips. “Grathen, you will now receive Sashara’s Cleansing Flames. Do not resist as the fire purifies.”

With that, he extended his hand, and flames erupted into existence, swirling around his palm in vibrant shades of orange and gold. They danced unnaturally, moving in intricate patterns as if they were alive. It was mesmerizing, but Nick caught the subtle way the fire twisted upon itself, as if eager to devour.

Marthas waved his hand, and the flames leaped toward Grathen, enveloping him in an instant.

The bearkin roared, stumbling back as he clawed at his fur. The flames licked at his body, seeming to burn but leaving no smoke or ash. His cries echoed across the grounds, and the crowd erupted in murmurs of alarm. A group of younger wolfkin surged forward instinctively, only to freeze when Marthas raised his free hand.

“Calm yourselves,” the Prelate commanded icily. He stepped forward, seizing Grathen by the shoulder and hauling him upright with shocking ease. The flames still clung to the bearkin, flickering wildly, but there was no sign of actual damage. “Grathen is unharmed, as you can see.”

And he was.

The murmurs quieted as all eyes turned back to Grathen. Slowly, he ceased struggling and patted himself down, brushing his hands through the flames. His breathing was ragged, yet his fur remained untouched, and there were no signs of burns. “I… I’m fine,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Marthas released him with a nod. “The flames test your purity of heart, nothing more. They do not harm those who are free of sin and corruption. You see, there is no cause for fear.”

Nick fought to gather himself. He closed his mouth and forced himself to flatten back down lest he be noticed.

His analytical mind was already working to dissect the magic. The fire was clearly extraordinary—it didn’t consume matter, yet he could feel the air around it churn as oxygen was burned. The Prelate’s explanation was polished—likely rehearsed—but the mechanics of the spell intrigued Nick. Cleansing magic was incredibly rare and difficult to master, as what constituted filth varied depending on the specific culture.

Nick knew of at least three budding spell casters on Earth who lost their lives because they ended up removing the iron from their blood.

He suppressed a frustrated sigh.

With Grathen’s safety assured, the people relaxed, if only slightly. The bear-man stepped back, still patting his body in search of burns, but seeing that he was moving under his own power, no one seemed ready to bolt anymore.

The roll call continued, and each beastkin stepped forward in turn. Foxkin, lizardfolk, and wolfkin approached the Prelate with expressions that ranged from stoic to terrified. The flames engulfed them all, provoking various reactions—shouts, flinches, and, in one instance, a moth woman collapsing entirely. Yet none were harmed, and Marthas repeated his assurance each time.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“No one with a pure heart should fear Sashara’s Cleansing Flames,” he said repeatedly, and each time the people were able to walk back, the words sounded less empty.

Despite the reassurance, however, an unease lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Nick remained still, observing everything and trying to determine whether his plan could still succeed—and if he should even attempt it at this point.

At the same time, he committed every detail to memory, knowing he would spend many long hours reviewing his mental notes—and, if necessary, his memories. The way the flames moved, the subtle shifts in the air around Marthas when he summoned them, and even the reactions of the beastmen—all of it was data. He didn’t trust the Prelate, not in the slightest, but he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of his display.

He began to genuinely worry about Elia as the inspection neared its midway point. She hadn’t shown up yet, and though there were still a hundred more beastkin waiting in line, he doubted the priests would appreciate having to look for her. His chest tightened at the thought of her standing before Marthas, subjected to those flames and the judgment they represented.

The inspection continued without a hitch. Marthas moved down the line, summoning one beastman after another while the flames of Sashara’s Cleansing lit the temple grounds in bursts of gold and orange. Nick remained hidden, waiting until Elia’s name was called and her absence revealed.

Then, Marthas paused, glancing at the parchment in his hand. “Morrin Dusk.”

The murmuring crowd stilled as his words washed over them. No one stepped forward.

“Morrin Dusk,” Marthas repeated, maintaining his relaxed stance, but a faint hint of impatience crept into his tone.

Still, there was no response. Nick shifted his weight, unease building in his gut. He scanned the rows of assembled beastmen, but none so much as twitched.

The Prelate exhaled a slow, deliberate sigh. “Morrin Dusk,” he called for a third time, now with a quiet disappointment that held more weight than anger ever could.

The silence that followed was suffocating. A minute later, when it was clear he wasn’t present, Marthas turned around, addressing the cluster of priests standing behind him. “Go and locate this Morrin,” he instructed, his words calm yet carrying a sharp edge. “And do remember the rules of decorum.”

Nick didn’t overlook the subtle tension that swept through the crowd. The mention of “decorum” sounded more like a warning than reassurance, and his eyes darted to the hunched old priest with the gnarled cane. The man’s face split into a nasty grin, resembling a predator who had just been given permission to hunt. Nick’s fingers tightened around his wand.

The beastmen shifted uncomfortably, their tails flicking and ears twitching. Even the massive bearkin seemed on edge, their unease plain despite their imposing frames. Marthas, sensing the atmosphere, lifted a hand to steady them.

“Calm,” he said soothingly. “It is entirely possible that Morrin is ill or otherwise unable to attend. This is why we must investigate. If anyone here has information regarding Morrin Dusk’s whereabouts, now would be the time to share it.”

Nick felt his pulse quicken as he realized where he’d heard that name. Morrin Dusk. That was the mothman he’d seen speaking with Wulla a few days ago. Their conversation had been tense, and though Nick hadn’t caught every word, it was clear he’d been worried about something.

He wondered, piecing together fragments of memory. Wulla had seemed adamant about something, trying to talk the mothman down. Was Morrin planning something? Or was he simply afraid of this whole spectacle, as any sane person would be?

Before Nick could speculate any further, Marthas clapped his hands. “Let us not dwell on a single absence,” he said, his commanding tone drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “The inspection will continue.”

The names resumed, and the flames returned. Nick watched with a mix of fascination and frustration as each beastkin was engulfed, flinching but ultimately emerging unscathed. Marthas’s control over the crowd was absolute, and his words and actions were meticulously calculated to maintain order and compliance.

After what felt like an eternity, movement at the back of the grounds caught his attention. The priests had returned, dragging a struggling figure between them: Morrin Dusk. The mothman’s wings twitched wildly, his iridescent scales reflecting the sunlight as he twisted and pulled against their grip. His wide, multifaceted eyes shimmered with panic, and his long fingers clawed at the air, desperately trying to grab onto something.

The crowd parted as the priests brought Morrin forward, watching with curiosity and dread. His protests were muffled, and his voice choked with fear, but his body language spoke volumes. He didn’t want to be here.

As they reached the base of the steps, Morrin made one last desperate attempt to break free. He twisted violently, wrenching his arms from the priests’ grasp and bolting toward the crowd.

He didn’t get far.

The world seemed to shift, growing heavy and oppressive. Nick felt a physical weight pressing down on him, stopping himself from collapsing only because the sensation lacked any real presence. An immense power descended over the area, palpable and undeniable.

Morrin froze mid-stride, locking up as though an invisible hand had grabbed him. His wings quivered, folding tightly against his back as he was dragged to his knees by the sheer force of whatever had taken hold of him. The crowd recoiled, and many beastmen clutched at their chests or heads, pale with fear, though no one screamed. They didn’t have the strength to.

Nick barely suppressed a gasp as a notification appeared in his vision.

has protected you from an active mental skill.

Marthas descended the steps slowly, his eyes glowing with fiery power. The crimson tattoos on his arms flared brighter, and their intricate patterns became almost hypnotic. He stopped a few feet from the trembling mothman, casting a long shadow with his towering frame.

“Morrin Dusk,” he growled, low and dangerous. “You would flee from Sashara’s light?”

Morrin tried to speak, but his words were strangled, his throat working against whatever invisible force held him in place.

Nick thought grimly.