Fordain was a town. Not an auspicious or well-known town, nor a run-down poor town. It was simply a town in the Tandrian Dominion that in a way reflected the province as a whole. That was the general gist of it that Danadrian had picked up on. After over a day of travel the first roofs of Fordain came into view, and he was treated to his first look at Carathiliarian society, of which he had only the faintest idea of what to expect.

  The town was gathered around the Great Southern Road, which bisected it in half and spawned lesser roads and pathways that snaked between the buildings. Supposedly the town had once achieved minor prosperity as the middle ground between the Enur Venadin Mountains to the south and the city of Tandrias, capital of the Dominion, but had lost much of their economic status when trade dried up, and anyone committing themselves to ventures here chose to take their business to the capital.

  As he got a good look at the buildings, he understood those explanations entirely. They had a curving architecture, with round windows and low, slanted roofs. Twinkling metal adornments hung from roofs and brushed one another in the wind, letting off a pleasant sound. But the maroon stones that made up their homes were cracked and chipping more often than not, the metal pieces rusted, and several being neglected and left to lay in the alleyways between buildings.

  But the people were not entirely impoverished, though Velandus told him there was a growing ‘slum’ district to the west. They wore wrapped robes on their chests and baggy pants that made him sweat to look at.

  It’s not that hot is it?

  And they did see Carathiliar, even as they climbed the flattened, expansive hill that the town was set upon. Travellers or forestmen returning home or venturing into the wilds would nod politely to them and might exchange a few words with Lethandirr if he was poking his head out of the back. The farther in they got, the more residents would appear, and he felt something stirring in him as they did. Some would be sweeping the dirt off the street, trying to peddle their wares, or simply moving from house to house on their way to work.

  But when Velandus announced that they had properly ‘entered’ Fordain, it was like a spark was lit on the road, and the growing numbers became an inferno.

  In what felt like seconds, the road was crowded, completely packed to the point where the horse had to slow to barely a trot, though some made way for it. They were dashing from their homes, bidding their families goodbye, running bearing sacks laden with goods, or carrying crates of produce. Other carts came out of the side roads or ran parallel to them down the main street. Children giggled and ran about as adults jostled with one another, either in good nature or without.

  All of this was only processed in the farthest reaches of his mind. What was in the forefront now, and the only emotion rushing through his veins, was pure, unbridled panic.

  Panic.

  He felt a cry strangle itself in his throat. Was he lightheaded? What was happening? He wasn’t able to think properly.

  I… can’t…

  He said something to Velandus, though he had no idea what. He thought he replied, but it was like a dull noise unable to break through the ringing in his ears. He wasn’t thinking. He just needed to get away. He stumbled off the cart and was pulled into the current of the crowd.

  Hot bodies crushed him, bouncing him down the road without any real destination in mind. Some may have seen him, but their focus never swayed. He immediately regretted his decision. He let out an involuntary gasp for air, he felt like he was suffocating. His free hand clawed at his neck.

  What is happening to me?

  His heart was racing, barely a coherent thought bouncing within his skull. It had barely been an hour since he had drunk from a waterskin, and yet he felt parched beyond belief. If he wasn’t able to escape this crowd soon, he felt he might pass out.

  It was then he saw divine intervention at hand. The crowd thinned, people disappeared into buildings or moved on from where he was, and he was able to stand still for a moment, without a clue of where he was.

  But it was cold comfort. It didn’t help.

  He stumbled into the first quiet alleyway between buildings he could find, feeling the eyes of the locals boring into him. There he collapsed, gasping for air and desperately feeling at the ruined edge of his robes. The rags were loose around his neck, and yet he felt like they were choking him. He pulled the top half off of him, then his cloak, then clutched a hand to his heart.

  He tried to take deep breaths. He could feel his heart racing.

  His left hand, steadying him on the ground, grasped something cold. Discarded metal from the streets, no doubt. He warily pulled it up to his face but found no mere Carathiliarian ornament.

  He stared at the golden brooch, smaller than his palm, which was spiked all over in the image of a full Sun. At its centre, a sliver of silver that had been twisted into the image of a spear.

  He knew what this was. Memory burst into his mind. He knew what this meant.

  This was the symbol of Mayare, of the Church of the Light. This was a symbol of the Light.

  He placed it against his heart, and the beats began to slow. His vision stopped swimming, and the overwhelming feeling of nausea subsided. Blinking, he saw that colour had returned around him, and he’d stopped sweating as much. Letting out a sigh of relief, he looked down at the broach again.

  “What are you doing here?” He muttered, “And what am I, for that matter?”

  The panic he had felt when surrounded by the crowds, the architecture, the people, it was all so… foreign to him. Though he had nothing in his memory to compare them to, he nevertheless felt insecure as he walked on their ground, and without the Light…

  He ran his thumb over the brooch before looking out at the main road once more. There was still foot traffic, though severely lessened and nowhere near as claustrophobic, at least he hoped not. He redressed himself and stepped back onto the road, where he looked around for bystanders he might talk to. His eyes met an old man shuffling at the edge, broom in hand. Danadrian jogged across the street, carefully avoiding the various horses, carts, and travellers alike, before tapping the man on his shoulder.

  Initially, he spoke in a language he didn’t understand. When he turned in confusion and took a long, hard look at him, he wiped back his dark, greying hair and spoke in the Common Tongue.

  “What’s it you need, hithnadrr? Don’t tell me you lost something in the morning rush.”

  Hithnadrr?

  “Morning rush?”

  The old man raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you didn’t see the dozens and dozens ploughing along the street just now?”

  He frowned. “Is that a normal occurrence?”

  He got a scornful chuckle in response. “Foreigners. Of course it is, how else do people get to work? So did you lose something, cause that’s hardly my problem.”

  He straightened his back, trying to speak with confidence, “I have need of a holy place, do you know where I can find one?”

  The old man squinted his eyes. “A holy place…? I mean, the Ritual Palace is off in the West Corner, if that’s what you mean?” He looked him over once more before adding, “Though I’m not sure they’re giving handouts.”

  He controlled his face not to blush, becoming all the more aware by the second of the state of his clothing. Instead, he simply nodded his head to him. “I thank you, kind sir.”

  Leaving the confused old man, he walked across the street while keeping his eyes on the sky. Blessedly, the minimal cloud cover allowed him easy sight of the Sun. Tracking the slight movement, he could determine where west was and, presumably, where the ‘West Corner’ was.

  He continued moving by finding the largest street that led west and following it. The roads snaking away were sometimes of stone, but more often dirt, and none as well-maintained and concise as the Great Southern Road. Judging by that metric, this road was probably one of the better off ones, not entirely cobbled, by there was more than not. As he passed locals, he received only brief looks or stares, though no one greeted him or spoke a word at all, actually.

  A rather close-mouthed people, then. Light bless them, that can sometimes be a virtue.

  The district he was in seemed to be one of the largest, and primarily houses, as he saw husbands or wives tending to porches outside their homes, or children playing with stone or metal in the streets. There was a certain quaint charm to their architecture. They seemed to default to circles more often than not, with their curved roofs bending around each other and rounded windows as opposed to square ones. That, paired with the windy and bendy nature of the roads, made the whole town feel fluid in its motion and grander in intent than execution.

  Eventually, he came to the end of the road he had been following for close to an hour. And it stopped before the largest building he had ever seen. It sat somewhere between a tower and a barn, but he would hardly call it a palace. Unlike the maroon shade of stone or light oaken wood used throughout the city, this towering building was made from harsh, red rock and wood that was so dark it could have been black. It stretched to the sky so far that it would block the Sun not long after noon. Along the bricks, raw stone ran in an almost snake-like pattern, stuck to the edges of the tower as it rose into the sky. Contrasting the established colour scheme, the windows were harsh white, to the point that they were barely see-through. Almost milky in a way.

  A chill ran down Danadrian’s spine as he took in the sight before him. There was little rhyme or reason to its design, as if its architect had been drunk while designing it.

  “Pure chaos.”

  It was far from what he had expected for a place of worship, but then again, it was all surprises for him from now on, it seemed. And he needed now was whatever the Carathiliar could provide for him. His memories were lost. His knowledge dwindling. What had he but faith to fall back upon.

  Faith. The Light would provide, as was said amongst the Angelica. Even Fallen, even disconnected from the Light and scorned by his Goddess, he wanted to feel it again. The certainty of faith. Certainty was all he wanted.

  He walked through the open door, which was both large and black as can be. As he entered the building, a smell reached his nose. It was a familiar smell, an unpleasant smell to say the least, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Yet another missing memory? He thought on it for a moment, but then concluded… no. For once, it seemed to just be that he couldn’t quite recall it in the moment. That was so profoundly normal he had to savour it.

  The room he had walked into was a large hall, which even now was filled with over a dozen people. They lounged and talked with one another casually, sitting as small groups in clustered armchairs. Men in, as he was beginning to learn, the customary half-robes of the Carathiliar walked around and served the guests, conversing with them and bringing them drinks in large, ornate goblets.

  Very quickly, he began feeling the desire to leave. There were candles burning in all corners, which made the hall feel stuffy despite its size. The drink they consumed was clearly wine, he could smell it throughout, underlying that rancid aroma he had yet to identify. This was the Ritual Palace? It looked less like a holy place and more like… like…

  His comparison drifted off. As he stood there, no doubt a contemptuous expression running across his face, one of the robed men took notice of him and walked over. His skin was the lightest grey he had seen so far, which made the deep red tattoos over his face easier to identify. They waved and stretched across so much of his face that it was almost jarring. Like a ball of red yarn, actually.

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  He bowed his head. “Welcome to the Ritual Palace, traveller. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  He sized the man up again. Was he supposed to be… a clergyman?

  “I came seeking a holy place, for prayer. I understand this is one?”

  “Naturally. If you wish, you may take any unclaimed seat, and a monk will attend to you at your pleasure.”

  He swept his arms to the room before waltzing away. Danadrian found himself standing beside a lush armchair with an empty goblet beside it, ready to be filled with whatever he desired. And it made him all the more uneasy.

  Worship and faith are one thing, but this is bordering on decadence. He ran a finger over the brooch, which he had pinned to his cloak. A group of men nearby were giving him a strange look, eying his clothes, but just as many only glanced up at him once, before shrugging and continuing on as if it were the norm.

  He lowered himself into the chair before immediately shooting back up from it the moment he touched the fabric. It felt so… wrong. The air, no matter how few looked at him or how welcoming they were, something in the air felt like static, hostile even.

  Some of the monks were now looking at him and whispering to one another, but his gaze, which had been surveying the room, now locked on the edge of it. At the end of the room, there stood an imposing altar, tended to by a white-hooded man. He seemed to be chanting? Danadrian began edging his way forward, curiosity and that burning sensation both pushing him forward. The rancid smell grew as he did.

  “Um, sir, I would not count it wise to-”

  He ignored the concerned voice and continued his approach to the altar. At the sound of his footsteps, the hooded man stopped his chanting and turned his head to look at him. He couldn’t see where his eyes were looking, but could feel them comb over him.

  “Curious.” The man said. “Not many of your kind find themselves in this hall.”

  “My kind?”

  “Foreigners. Non-Carathiliar from beyond the mountains and hills, who come here with their foreign goods and Gods. Heathens and heretics alike.”

  He nodded slowly, taking a few more steps forward. “When this is the only site of prayer in town, I’d assume more would participate.”

  There was a pause as the man mulled over his choice of words, during which he reached the edge of the altar, and something caught his eye. There was a dip in the ground beyond it, where the pungent smell grew in such intensity that… was that iron? He walked around the altar and man, ignoring both, and came face to face with a horror.

  A pool of blood swirled beneath him.

  The food in his stomach threatened to leave with force. He coughed, swallowing down bile and vomit in his mouth, and turned away as fast as he could. It was… what was… why…?

  When he turned away, he met the gaze of several monks. The robbed man, who had lowered his hood, had an expression of wrath painted across his face. He looked upon the brooch that Danadrian wore, and his arms began to shake.

  “Hithnadrr. Heathen.”

  He looked at him groggily. “What did you say you me?”

  His face contorted into one of rage. “You dare saunter in here bearing profane symbols of that murderous bastard of a Goddess.”

  He looked down at his brooch and felt his disgust give way to anger. “What did you say? I am the heathen? Whilst you display Human blood to your followers and forsake the Light in this pit of debauchery?”

  He reached for his side before realising he had left his spear in the cart. Would he have resorted to violence that quickly?

  Yes, in the face of such horror and malpractice, yes.

  “Of course, another blinded faithful of the Goddess of Light.” He spat on the ground. “Not even worth my spit.”

  “Heretic-” He was cut off as the man grabbed him by the collar.

  “Where do you think you are, hithnadrr? You bring your Light into this place, into the Karatinian UnOrder? You presume to mock us like your fellow missionaries did? I say we will have no more of your kind disgracing and defacing our halls.”

  He barely even acknowledged the words coming out of his mouth. Instead, his gaze was focused on the symbol in white on the man’s forehead. The first symbol in this town he recognised. A sword, supported by various lines and dark shapes, contorting and twisting as it did. It was a Dark sigil. It was the symbol of the Deruma.

  “Derumani.” He muttered, “Clathitarie. Steminarie.” The words and their meaning were coming back to him. Why? Why now?

  The man’s shaking brought him back to his senses. “You dare walk on our stones? You dare preach and belittle our faith? All for the Goddess of murderers and blind men.”

  “I should slay you where you stand for speaking ill of her, you lowlife.”

  The words came out of his mouth before he had properly considered them, and yet he meant every word to the last. Confusion and rage warred within him, and given the chance, he would split these heathens down the middle.

  The man’s grey face was achieving colours he had not considered possible. “Death is the natural order of the world.” He whispered, “Therefore, I find killing you to be a disservice to the True Chaos. The last time I killed one of your ilk, I almost lost my position, so I will let you off with a warning.” He leaned closer. “Your Light has no place here.”

  Seconds later, he was thrown out onto the road before the ‘Palace’, hitting every stone on the way out. Fallen once more.

  He could hear whispers of those who passed him by, but not one person stopped to help him or even ask him directly what he was doing there. Instead, he stared up at the disgusting building that towered into the sky. This was where he had Fallen?

  Derumani. Clathitarie. Steminarie. In the heat of the moment, those words had come to him, and with them, their meanings. The Clathitarie were the Gods of Clatharia, the homeland of the Gods, who swore fealty to Mayare and her husband, the Fire God Chalador. They were in his eyes, the epitome of Godhood, they who ruled above all mortals and were worshipped in kind.

  The Steminarie were the Fairdweller Gods. Those who roamed Andwelm, living in its forests and mountains, were prayed to by disparate folk, and in some ways, bonded themselves closer to the mortals than was proper. Though they elected no queen, in practice their leader was Mariath, Goddess of Nature and the Wilds. A contemporary of Mayare, whom she equal parts respected and admonished. The-

  Whatever else there was, it vanished.

  And last and least of all, the Derumani. The Deeplord Gods who dwelt in dark planes and realms beyond, who preyed on the innocent and surrounded themselves in Darkness. Even now, he felt his heart tighten at the thought. They were the steadfast enemies of the Light, rancid and foul as they were, and at their head was the Goddess of Death herself, Teratheer. Foremost among his people’s enemies in this world.

  And here he lay, surrounded by a people who followed the Derumani. Was he to spread his beliefs and faith as a missionary, uncloud their eyes and bring them the truth of the Light? Was that to be his purpose?

  That was presumptuous, to assume that he’d been given a purpose here. The simplest conclusion was often correct, and it was that this was a punishment for whatever his crimes had been, nothing more, nothing less.

  “Somehow, you’re looking even worse for wear than before, Danadrian.”

  He sat up and looked at the source of the voice atop his cart. Velandus raised an eyebrow. “First thing you do when you reach Fordain is get thrown out of the Ritual Palace? You’re a bolder man than I thought.”

  “I apologise for not saying goodbye.” He replied, brushing the dust from his lap.

  “It’s all good, the morning rush here can get to the best of us. You were looking a little queasy anyway.” He nodded next to him. “Hop on, I’ll give you a ride.”

  He accepted the offer and, with a groan, pulled himself onto the cart. Falling with this body hurt. How mortals lived like this for their entire lives was beyond him.

  Velandus shook the reins, and they started moving. “So, you’re a follower of Mayare.”

  He looked down at the brooch that still hung on the edge of his cloak. The smarter half of his brain told him wandering around with it on display was going to get him into even more trouble, but the faithful side refused to hide it in shame. “Going to throw me back off then?”

  “Hardly.” The old man chuckled, “I may not worship her as you do, but I respect her, as I do all the gods.” He cast an eye back at the Palace. “My guess is that you never bothered to ask who the people in their were worshipping.”

  “Unfortunately, it never crossed my mind.”

  He shook his head. “I apologise on their behalf then. They’re not so bad once you get used to them, but I know they’ve been getting tenser in this Domain recently.”

  “Not so bad- they have a pool of blood.”

  “Willingly given by their Deru Monks, as well as local followers, every day. They would never take it by force, it defeats the purpose for them, I believe.”

  “There’s a purpose to it?” He asked, perplexed.

  “Of course, isn’t there always a purpose to one’s religious practices. Though I will admit, the specifics of their rituals in particular are lost to me.” He scratched his head. “And I find myself, not so much morally opposed to it, as my stomach is opposed to the stench.”

  “How much purpose can a Derumani Religion have?” He muttered, to which Velandus gave him a stern response.

  “The UnOrder may worship the God of Chaos, but their devotion to Creation is just as feverous. They give back to the community when they can, and you’ll be hard pressed to find a better Derumani sect. Trust me, there are far worse.”

  “That there are worse does not justify their behaviour. I didn’t see worship in there, I saw decadence and indulgence. Explain to me how that constitutes as faith?”

  Velandus frowned. “I think, rather, that you should decide where you draw the line in the sand when it comes to faith. Remind me again, how does the Church of the Light revere the Queen of Clatharia?”

  “Daily prayer and worship, at a shrine or church if you are able.” He responded immediately and without hesitation. “In your day-to-day life, embody the virtues and principles of the Light. That would be the minimum in my eyes.”

  “Mhm, well then, let me enlighten you a little. What you referred to as ‘decadence and indulgence’ is actually the principal method these people chose to pay homage to Kraton, the God of Chaos.” He took a swig from his water flask. “They take time out of their days to live contrary to their lifestyles, to throw chaos into their days and damn be the consequences. Craftsmen and labourers will spend the afternoon indulging themselves with food and wine, in the Palace or not-”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that’s a good thing?” Danadrian interrupted.

  “-And likewise, you will have nobility and royalty sweeping the roads of the capital or making food in a local tavern.” That made him go quiet. “See, it’s all about the chaos when it comes to them, and chaos by its nature has infinite interpretations and possibilities.”

  He mulled over that for a little bit. Sure, there were some aspects of it that were marginally admirable, but the confusion and twisting nature of the belief just didn’t sit right with him. It was not belief in a way he found familiar.

  “How does one find faith in the arbitrary? Faith should ground us in who we are as people, guide our actions when we know not the way. It’s a light in the tunnel when darkness has consumed all others. This… this is throwing all caution to the wind and going against the flow of one’s nature.”

  Velandus nodded. “That is the meaning of faith to you, Danadrian. But to them?” He gestured around them. “To them it has a whole different meaning, one that even I could not explain in its fullest to you.”

  He spoke with such certainty that he decided not to argue against it, at least not openly. Instead, he rubbed at his back, which still ached, and became keenly aware of the empty feeling in his stomach. Metaphorically and literally.

  “There’s an apple or two in the back.”

  He arched an eyebrow as he took one and bit into it. “So you’re a mind-reader and a traveller now?”

  “You’re experiencing a new culture, anyone could tell that you’ve seen better days, and you just got mercilessly flung about fifteen meters. You’re definitely hungry.”

  The apple, though slightly bruised, felt blissful to his body. He noted the empty cart, both in terms of supplies and personnel. “Lethandirr and others gone already?”

  “I dropped them off not too long after you scarpered away. They sent their regards if I did see you again, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Well…” He winced, “Lethandirr did.”

  “Ah.”

  Their conversation died down for a bit, as he ate another apple and Velandus dropped a few more facts about the town as they passed through it. Danadrian still felt sore, but the shock of the UnOrder was wearing off, though his anger and indignation continued to fester at his core. Eventually, Velandus turned to him again.

  “Danadrian, you seek solace and stability in your beliefs. That is admirable.”

  That… hit closer to home than he’d expected. It is one thing to think it, but another to hear it verbalised aloud to him. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he kept quiet.

  “But I must ask, if only to quell my own worries, do you have a plan?”

  That struck him, but he thought on it a moment before responding, “Hoping I won’t be beaten on sight by the locals for my transgressions is a start.”

  That got a smirk, but he shook his head. “That’s all well and good, but I meant more in the long term. I’m not sure if you’ve seen your reflection recently, but those robes aren’t exactly cutting it.”

  He sighed, not even bothering to look again at his clothing. “I don’t suppose you have a spare tunic?”

  “It’s in a box in the back. But what about food? A place to sleep, even?”

  He blinked. Those were…astute observations, and he was both surprised and concerned that he hadn’t thought of them sooner. Whilst he’d been surviving by the skin of his teeth in the forest, those choices had come naturally to him, and yet in this city, it was like a fog had settled on his mind, consciously or not. His eyes glanced around at a crowd of people jostling one another to enter a tavern, and he felt a chill run down his spine. Be it a part of him that yet remained or not, he… wasn’t sure he liked being in a town.

  Now, whether that was because of the Carathiliar or not was the question.

  “I-I will be honest, I have not given it the proper thought it deserves. I suppose it’s probably obvious, but” he shrugged, “I have not a coin to my name right now.”

  “I could tell.” He chuckled, “Do you want some of the sage wisdom I can produce?”

  “Gladly.”

  He put a free finger to his mouth. “This may be obvious, but do not spend unnecessarily. Food, basic food that you can afford, is a must, as well as the cheapest accommodations you can find.” There was a slight wince. “I won’t deny, it will be uncomfortable, but the alternative is a dirt pile somewhere.”

  “I spent a night in a burrow, I think I can handle a lumpy bed.” He assured him, “But this is all speaking with the idea that I have any money to spend. Again, no coins.”

  Velandus nodded ahead of them. “And there you will find the second part of my sage wisdom to you.”

  Ahead of them was a large building, the largest he had seen in the town so far. Whereas the rest had been low-hanging buildings, some reaching two stories up, this one had three. Other than that, it was as maroon and curved as the rest, but hanging from a pole was something special. A flag, displaying a symbol he couldn’t decipher like all the rest, but for the first time, there was a translation under it in the Common Tongue.

  ‘Fordain Company of the Gethanhol’

  “The Company? This is what he’d heard Cuthlan talking about.”

  “Well, if you’ve only got the clothes on your back, what better way to make some coin than the Company? Take a couple jobs, earn a handful of copper, and at the very least you won’t have to worry about starving to death.”

  “You put it so eloquently.” There was a small, impermanent crowd around the building, and at the sight of him, he received the stares that were becoming all too common. Not many were positive, and he swore he heard that word tossed around again.

  “Speaking of which… Velandus, what does “hithnadrr” mean? I have been hearing it thrown around at my person a lot today.”

  He received a grimace as a response. “That… is an unsavoury term they use when referring to foreigners. Specifically, oblivious light-skinned folk such as yourself.”

  Danadrian rubbed a hand against his face as he sighed.

  “Naturally.”