Bartholomew sat in the darkness of his chamber. The skin of his knees had been scraped off from the rhythmic jerks of his chest- a physical, lasting manifestation of his sobs. The cold had long since numbed his lower appendages and bereaved him of some of the pain- a pain as just as the scorching agony tormenting him from the missing strips of skin from his back. His father had branded him a traitor and a traitor he was- just not the kind his father had intended. He had betrayed his men as he had sat on his knees and watched their torments about the courtyard- breathing in the thick smoke of scorching flesh leaking out from brazen bulls and grills. His now-sore knees had been well lubricated with the blood of the many impaled, writhing, dying legionaries that had followed him into what they thought would be battle, but instead ended up being a lengthy drinking-run... and what had he done to protect them? He had wept...

There were few in the Empire who could match his swordplay- he would be surprised if there were any... but even he had his limitations, or so he had told himself. He could’ve grabbed one of their pokers- killed Inquisitors and the tortured alike. Instead; he had sat there- fearing for his life as they skinned him alive and bared his wings for the court to see... for his Father to see...

Ultimately, what had become of his raison d’etre? For what glorious purpose had he suffered so? To murder magical children- children no more guilty of their plight than he was guilty of being born into this rotten world- to an uncaring, nepotistical father. He stood to his height and struggled against his numb feet to step over towards the mirror to look upon his ruined flesh- what had once been a magnificent, muscled back. The disgustingly thin membrane of scars left him cold in the chamber’s cool air- a stark reminder of his crimes- his failure many times over. His father had gifted him this eternal, constant reminder to make him think twice the next time he chose to disobey the Empire’s doctrine- the wings practically screamed for him to turn the child in... but in between the blinks of his eyes- those glorious, stolen, split seconds where his vision was no longer plagued by the intrusions of the scar; he saw his suffering men.

Cautious knocks in the door meant Lita had finally come to lather him up in the ointments. He stepped over to the bed and grabbed his shirt before striding towards the door to push it open and continue past the bowing, white-robed Sensate.

“Sire- your lotionining-” He shook his head and led the way onwards- through the dark, gilded halls. In silence; the two passed painting after painting displaying the Inquisition- his family’s crimes against the race of Man. Tortured magi- young and old; from the last Arch Magus to his disciple Asrael the Pale, the expensive decorations were all the same- intended to glorify and justify the indefensible. Titus had spoken something the previous evening- something about a Pyre... something he needed to see with his own eyes.

The Inquisitors all raised their hands in straight-backed salutes as he pressed by them- ignoring their presence as if they never even registered. Lita followed her charge down into the depths; to the darkest corner of their darkest dungeon- far below the streets of Pilta to find a pair of guards standing watch by a single, manned door.

“Open.” Bartholomew ordered. Neither hesitated- who were they to argue with the commands of Bartholomew ‘the Bloody’ Sargerrei. The tired, ancient door swung open to reveal the reeking interior of a cell. Old, rotting blood, feces and stale urine poisoned the air above the heaving form laying atop the pile of scarlet hay in the corner.

“Stay.” He commanded the Sensate and stepped inside- closing the door in his wake. The naked woman was relatively young- mid-thirties, perhaps... not much older than himself. Like him, she had suffered under the cruelty of their Masters. Cuts and burns covered most of her shivering, pale body. Her empty, bloody eye-sockets stared out into the room, yet he had the unmistakable sensation she could see him... another sensate, perhaps? Not that it mattered.

He sat down on his knees to wrap his arms around her. He was cold, but the shivering form was even colder... at least for a few hours more. If the Inquisition were to get their way with her; she would either be raped to death or live to feel her body sizzle and burn beneath her. He cursed himself for feeling relieved upon seeing her missing bulbs, as it meant she had been spared seeing his curse- that damnable likeness to the cruel tyrant that had cursed her to this fate.

“H-hello...?” She whispered through a dry mouth.

“Get me some water!” He commanded towards the door before returning to run a hand through her chestnut hair. She sounded a single, muffled cough into his shirt.

“I’ve come to save you... I do not know how, but...” She was quick to shake her head and soil his shirt with the upset abrasions of her face.

“N-no... I-it m-must... be done...” He could scarcely believe his ears, his eyes nor her throat. He swallowed the contents of his dry mouth and shook his head.

“You can recover. I can help you...” Bart whispered into her ear, only to feel her weakly hands grab at his shirt and whisper;

“No... He needs this to happen... for my daughter...” This pathetic wretch was delusional- surely; she would thank him for this later. He ran another hand through her hair and looked down at her courageous frown. “I will make certain your daughter is safe. When that guard comes in, I will take his sword and we will-” the empty slits where her eyes had once been, trickled with tears.

In a whisper, lower than before; she conveyed; “H-he n-needs t-to see... me... on the pyre... I m-must h-hold on... not until then... he will take her to safety...” Her sockets closed- leaving him in the company of her unconscious body without a soul to share in his pain and outrage. Whatever she had spoken, he had the sense it had not been a delusion... could it be... that someone was out there- helping the magi? But what cruel demands had this benevolent benefactor set for her- that she should have to live through such a terrible fate.

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Maribelle had never seen such a horribly ugly man before. Opposite to her in the jiggling carriage; a man glared at her babe with hungry, green eyes and an inhumane, greedy grin. The deathly pallor of his skin contrasted his black, greasy hair and somehow made him appear more dead. Next to the walking corpse; the beautiful girl and the small, fat man looked out the carriage’s window with awe- ‘ooing’ and ‘aaing’ at everything from brick houses to storefronts as if neither had ever seen anything like it.

“Tell me, little girl... how does it work? How does your magic not burn your flesh when you express it?” The disgusting man leaned forwards to frighten the babe. Maribelle raised a hand before her daughter in defense against the unsightly creature. He looked up at her and glared, as if to say she had no business interfering in his study.

“That’s none of your business, creep. Stay away from my daughter!” She shouted- bemusing the long-haired beauty next to the unsightly creature. He waved her off before extending his own palm before her. In all her years, Bess had never seen the magics of another and even if she had; he gathered she would never have seen such vivid, dancing, green colors. From the sparse pores in his palm; green, rhythmic gasses leaked into the atmosphere, where they dissipated to become invisible. For whatever reason; this upset the mother, who reacted by hissing at him like the animal he viewed her.

Thankfully; the girl’s wisdom and eagerness to show off victoried as she, in turn, raised her palm to express her own magic. It was brief- only a flash, but in the flash; Asrael saw the solution to his hypotheses. The flames were, in fact, only forming an inch or so away from her skin- leaking from numerous pores before concentrating enough to conflagrate.

“Magnificent...” He whispered. This, in turn; offended Neda whose scoff disarmed the scorned mother. Still... in Asrael’s brief moment of inattentiveness, the mother reached across to slap his pale cheek with enough force to have him retract his eager eyes from her palm. Neda and Bess both chuckled, but Maribelle was far from bemused.

“How dare you. This curse needs healing! I told you, Bess- you're never using it that carelessly ever again!” Asrael’s eyes grew wide with protest. The girl was, undoubtedly, the strongest pyromancer he had ever laid his eyes on- by far. Not using this gift of hers was a crime worthy of punishment, a viewpoint he signaled by muttering; “You bumbling idiot. A curse? I know my way around curses and this is no curse... your daughter is a God amongst you ants and, like to me, you should all worship her.” He spoke as he rubbed his chin.

It was the first time Bess had ever heard anyone speak of magic as something positive and despite it coming from the disfigured man, she could not help but feel confused- as if his words actually meant something. Before Maribelle and Asrael could commence their debate in full; the carriage woefully came to a halt, at which point; the mother and daughter fled through the door before the driver could descend from his seat at the front.

Neda grinned joyously at the foolish necromancer still rubbing his pained cheek and muttered a silent; “Idiot...”- reigniting his fury. “How dare you-” Before he could scold her, the damnable harlot had already left his side and joined the mother and child out in the bright sun.