Bartholomew’s blue eyes were gazed emptily at the blue skies through the window. The guards stationed by the door of his prison cell- or rather, its equivalent, were nearly blinded by the sunny sheen of his golden hair and the reflection on his naked, pale body, where he sat in his childhood chambers with a low brow and sipped at a glass of wine. He had spent countless hours dreaming of a life beyond the marble tiles and the massive panes of glass keeping him inside his newfound prison.

He spat a globule of bitter purple on the floor and set his glass back down on the gilded desk, before turning to look at his impressive, empty bed. He had spent days toiling in those sheets- suffering from the countless nightmares that just as easily haunted him in his waking hours. The silken sheets were still damp with the night’s sweat, but the floral breeze coming in through his window would see to that they would dry, by long.

“You seem to be doing well.” A familiar, old voice spoke from the door. Bartholomew did not need to turn to see who it was- there were none other who had taken to visiting him, after all.

The golden guards stationed at the door silently closed the massive barriers on the naked Bartholomew and his master of old- General Ingvard. He turned to look at the ancient man with a bitter frown, to see the old General smile down at him. His wrinkled forehead glistened from the sweat of carrying his plated armor around the city, but his moustache and silvery hair remained pristinely dry- as was typical of the man. Pristine.

Bartholomew took another sip of the wine and scoffed. “Looks can be deceiving, Uncle. Have you come to behold the beast in his habitat?” General Ingvard chuckled and grabbed the free seat by the desk to seat himself opposite of the gilded furniture.

“You know as well as I do, Bart, that your natural habitat is in this city’s whorehouses.” Bartholomew had to suppress a chuckle and set the glass back down to smile bitterly out into the room.

“Humor, Ingvard? What is this world coming to if you would devolve to such a human thing?” Ingvard set his decorative helmet down on the desk and rolled his shoulders in turn with a shrug and a slight smile.

“It must be the senility. To think, I would begin to feel bemusement in my old age?” Bartholomew tapped his fingertips against the desk and scoffed a laugh. After a moment’s silence, Ingvard leaned back on the chair and continued:

“Well, now, Bart. If you are through with your sulking, I suppose it time we have a chat, yes?” The Sargerrei offshoot ran a hand through his golden hair and demonstratively kicked his feet up on the table.

“And what, Uncle, would we have to talk about? I have already told you- I remember nothing of Pilta. Whoever stabbed me must have done something to my mind.” Bartholomew rubbed his left flank, where Asrael had buried the blade in his flesh- deftly missing anything and everything of import. Ingvard surprised his ward by kicking his heavy, armored boots onto the desk to lean back on his chair with an unexpected smoothness to his old bones.

“Yes, you keep saying so. I must admit, I am glad to know it, as I suspect those events would’ve left you scarred.” Ingvard paused, chuckled and continued: “You were a shambling mess when we found you, hardly coherent at all. You kept speaking a name- do you remember it?” The smile spoke of bemusement, but the tinge in his voice spoke of something far more profound. Bartholomew was quick- too quick to shake his head.

“No. The first thing I remember is the inside of the carriage, when Lita woke me.” The boy was consistent, if not a good liar. Still leaned backwards on the chair, Ingvard followed the question up with:

“I take it you still do not remember what happened to your brother, then?” Bartholomew still had not learned to master his bodily reactions to stress. Naked, it was more obvious than ever- the pulsing of his neck and chest, the ever-so-slight jerk of his shoulders- the shrinking of his warm scrotum all spoke volumes of his deceit.

“No.” Bartholomew muttered.

“Yet you’ve not asked how he is faring. I find that... puzzling. Do you not love your brother?” Bartholomew closed his eyes- again wishing he could rewind time and better prepare himself for the untimely visit.

“What do you want, old man? You have kept me here for over a week and neither you- nor my father have taken it upon yourselves to come and kill me yet. Is this some new form of torture I am not yet aware of?” The ancient man raised an eyebrow and scoffed his turn.

“I merely wished to see my apprentice and congratulate him for a job well done in showing his loyalty to the Emperor. Whether you remember it or not, your warning served to limit a catastrophe that might’ve shook our Empire should you not have intervened.” Bartholomew’s stomach growled with protest- his lips begged him to be allowed to spill their secrets. Instead, the demoralized, naked man spat:

“My loyalty to my father, you mean? Worry not. I am loyal enough to feed his perpetual bloodlust when it suits me.” Bartholomew reached across the table and for the first time, Ingvard saw how disheveled his ward’s beard had become. Draining down the wine, the Sargerrei son listened to Ingvard as he chuckled and spoke:

“Regardless of where your loyalties lie, I am glad that you are faring well, Bart. Above all, I wished to chat with you. I’ve grown lonely since my wife’s passing and my children are spread about the lands at this point. Though I may only be your uncle by name, I hope you realize that I do view you family.” Bartholomew squeezed the glass in his hand and had to resist throwing it across the desk.

“Well, then. Perhaps you would like to tell me if you would have done what you did to me, to any of your own children? Would you have stopped cutting when they screamed and pissed themselves in terror?” Ingvard’s lips contorted into a pitying smile, before the old man answered: “I suppose I would have, if it meant saving their lives. I would do most things to save the lives of my children- and you, for that matter.” Bart lowered his legs from the desk and set the glass down to pour himself another from a tall, green bottle on the gilded furniture.

Ingvard followed the young man’s example and lowered his feet to state: “You do realize that the punishment saved your life, yes?” Bartholomew paused and put the bottle back at the edge of the desk, before stating: “Nepotism saved my life, uncle, not your punishment. For what good it did... You ought to have killed me, you know. Spared yourself the trouble- perhaps Titus would still be alive, if you did.” Bart no longer cared of Ingvard knew- he already did, after all, and the factum he was still alive meant that it meant nothing to the old man.

Ingvard watched his ward drain down yet another glass of wine. “You’ve never approved of your father’s methods. You’ve never voiced it, but I’ve seen it- you would be a fool to think he has not, too.” Bartholomew scoffed down into the glass- hoping the inebriation would soon come to claim him.

“Is there a point to your visit, old man? Did you come to gloat and watch me drink myself to death?” Ingvard chuckled and before Bartholomew could react, his glass had already been slapped out of his hand and smashed into the far wall, where it exploded into a shower of little more but powdered silica. Ingvard sat back down with a smug smile and lectured: “You should not be so eager to throw your life away, child. One life- one man can make all the difference. Think of the Emperor and imagine if he had drunk himself to death.” Ingvard failed to see the fleeting panic passing over Bartholomew’s features, as he was too busy to continue on: “Think of Asrael the Pale...”

The way in which he slily spoke the name Asrael seemed to hint that the old man knew something- something he could not voice. It was the same tainting of his voice as when he had taken him to his first brothel and his first orgy- one that spoke of a secrecy so profound neither would ever even mention it. Ingvard sat back and curled his mustache between his fingers.

“Yes... Asrael the Pale- a magus, you’ve heard of him- everyone has. Some say he found a way to raise the dead, but I... I know he did. I was there when he showed it to us- that forbidden, unnatural display of his.” Ingvard seemed almost regretful as he bit into his lower lip and grunted.

“If only I had known better...” He muttered- earning his ward’s attention. Bart leaned forwards on the table- the same way he did, whenever Bart the child had listened to Ingvard’s numerous lies and tall tales. Ingvard leaned forwards on the table in turn and looked into Bartholomew’s blue eyes as he went on:

“Do you know what makes Capita so certain that killing the magi was a sound tactic? That it was just?” Bartholomew hesitated before nodding and stated: “Yes. The world’s magics grew stronger the more magi were killed.”

Ingvard hesitantly bobbed his head back and forth with a frown. “Believe it or not- completely coincidental, or so the deeper governments would have you believe. In truth,-” Before Ingvard could still Bartholomew’s budding curiosity, the doors creaked open again, this time to reveal a tall, wide form in an armor glistening with a polychromatic sheen.

From the northern tips of the Empire to the southernmost edge of the wall, everyone knew those wide, decorative pauldrons and the heavy bismuth plates- said to have been crafted by the last of the academic magi. The silver hair, the wise, gray eyes and the furrowed, displeased brow had been printed on silver coins for three decades and his name was spoken thousands upon thousands of times across the Empire. Gustav Sargerrei’s boots echoed between the walls as he approached his discomforted son and the warm-smiling Ingvard in the marbled hall keeping the scarred Sargerrei imprisoned.

Gustav came to a halt to loom above the desk and meet Bartholomew’s displeased stare with one of his own. The warmth of the chamber dissipated- both the guards could feel a chill in the air as the two aristocrats within Bartholomew’s room measured one-another with harsh glares, but neither spoke a word. Ingvard waved the air and signaled for his men to close the door and leave the trio to their undoubtedly soon-to-be-loud discussion.

When Bartholomew was finally satisfied their harsh stares had served their purpose, he spoke his greeting: “Father.” Gustav demonstratively looked to the wine staining the distant corner of his son’s chamber, before turning his gray eyes back on his son. “I would say I am disappointed to see you return to your old habits of debauchery, but truthfully, I am hardly surprised.” Bartholomew scoffed. He found it unsurprising his father would leave him to fester in what was, in essence, his fanciful cell for nine days, only to break for the lengthy silence to criticize his habits.

“Well, you’ve left me precious little to do save for drinking- or did you forget that you’ve burned all my literature?” The pulsating artery on his father’s forehead revealed that once again, Bartholomew had succeeded in aggravating Gustav.

“You’ve some nerve, you insolent whelp. That you would even ask for your smut as your brother suffers, tells me you’ve learned precious little in your time away from Capita.” Bartholomew failed to conceal how his father’s accusation offended him. Seeing Bartholomew’s passing grimace, Ingvard cleared his throat and spoke: “How is Titus faring? Have they made any progress?” Both Bartholomew and Ingvard knew that there would be no progress- the man was as dead as could be. They suspected that even Gustav knew, but remained stalwart in his hopefulness as he shook his head and finally averted his gaze from his son to look at his ancient companion.

“No. So far, the Purged have failed to understand the hieroglyphics inscribed in his flesh... It seems that healing him will take some time.” Bartholomew seemed hesitant to voice his concerns as he was forced to re-view the horrible scenery of sacrifice in his mind, but despite Ingvard’s warning glance, he spoke:

“Healing him? Even if it were possible, it would be unwise to do so. When I last saw Titus- before this spell was cast on him, he was stark, raving mad. You saw Pilta, Ingvard. That was all his doing-” Gustav did not hesitate in rounding on his naked son to shout:

“I find it puzzling how you can simultaneously pretend to have forgotten everything about Pilta, yet you dare accuse your brother of wrongdoing when he is at his weakest!?” Bartholomew dropped his jaw and shook his head at the unreasonable High Inquisitor.

“We are far beyond the point of accusing anyone of anything! I love my brother, but what I saw in Pilta was pure madness- what I wrote in the letter was the truth! You saw it, yes, Ingvard?” Ingvard remained on his chair, stroking his mustache with a jerk of his shoulders and with a hesitant, looming smile at the corners of his mouth.

“If I were you, Bartholomew, I would forget about everything that happened in Pilta and make no mention of it. The epidemic of misinformation has been swiftly dealt with and there will be none to corroborate your story.” Though he spoke the words with proximal bemusement, Bartholomew could hear that there was a certain tinge of just regret in his master’s voice. The naked Sargerrei turned towards his de facto uncle and questioned:

“What do you mean by that, Ingvard?” Bartholomew questioned with narrowed eyes. Gustav spoke in Ingvard’s place: “He means that because of your inability to help your brother, the Empire had no choice but to Purge the walled city of Pilta.” Bart’s jaws dropped. He paused- hoping either of the two aged men would break from their aggressive staring to reveal that they had spoken a jest, but to his dismay, there would be no grand reveal.

“W-what!?” Bartholomew shouted and rose from his seat to stare his wide, pale eyes at his father. Gustav- never one to back down, took a step forward to glare down at his wayward son.

“The Purged made quick work of most of them. But make no mistake- because of you, little but ashes remain of the structures between the walls save for scorched bricks and deformed metal. If you had-” Bartholomew watched his father’s lips continue to move, but could hear nothing save for the loud screeching in his ears.

His torment had started with his capture- the torture they had wrought upon him as they stripped wings of skin from his back and viciously tortured- murdered his friends all around him. Then, he had been shipped to Pilta, where he had watched his brother descend into madness and by long, had born witness to a deathly lockdown of the city... He had allied himself with Asrael- it had seemed like the right thing at the time, but upon learning that he was just as cruel and uncaring for the populace of Pilta, he had abandoned their contract shortly before being rescued by his father’s man.

The Piltans had suffered so, as Bartholomew sat enclosed beyond the walls- satiating himself on the depravity of the local branch of the Inquisition. He knew it had been bad, but seeing the ruins of the starved, abandoned city had been a sight that still kept him awake in the long hours of the night. Filthy, famished men and women- children, forced to cannibalize the long-dead... all the while, he had been safely tucked away in his brother’s chambers.

The final drop had been the ritual- a sacrifice of bodies that included several children and innocent, starved civilians- all to bring back Titus’ husk of a lover. Ingvard and the Purged had then, at the strike of the twelfth hour, butchered them all, but for what? To keep it all a secret- to hide the factum that Titus- beloved by all, was not the saint Gustav the Great had made him out to be?

Bartholomew put the weight of it all into is right hand and closed it to a fist. Ingvard pinched the bridge of his nose as he saw his apprentice strike his father’s left cheek with all his might. The heavily armored High Inquisitor staggered backwards and reached for his cheek- hardly surprised with his son’s outburst. The suit of heavy bismuth armor rose upright to rub his cheek and glare down at his crazed, frothing son’s naked form.

Bartholomew shouted: “I’ve always thought you cruel and insane, but this-… the few children who survived Titus’ rule needed your help, but instead, you killed them! They were innocent- they were loyal to him- and to you...” Gustav televised nothing as he swung out in turn, striking Bartholomew’s left cheek with enough force to send him reeling backwards towards the wall. Bart’s mind spun as the sensation of being struck by a mallet dawned on him, but the stubborn boy did not relent. He was quick to rise back up and ready his fists for a melee, only to see his Father’s harsh glare back at him.

“As usual, you are as void of vision as the day your mother cursed this world with her useless son.” Gustav’s lips contorted into a disgusted frown as he rubbed his pained cheek and turned for the door. Ingvard stared at his apprentice and sighed to rest his hand and elbow atop the desk. Gustav turned over his shoulder and opened his mouth to speak, but thought the better of it and instead shook his head with continued disappointment.

“You will stay here until I decide what to do with you, Bartholomew. You can thank your uncle you are not rotting in a cell that has no key.” Gustav pushed the tall doors open with the full force of his wide arms, before slamming them shut in his wake. Bartholomew dropped his fists to his sides, but he continued his hurried, ragged breath while popping his ears with his jaw.

“That was unwise, Bart. Your relationship does not need any more strain, so I implore you to reconsider the next time you decide to attack him. He is after all, one of few who could condemn you to death.” Bartholomew spat a globule of metallic-flavored spittle to the floor and cleared his throat. The punch might’ve cost him his life and if not, most his future... but he found himself curiously lacking of regret.

“I do not care, old man. He can kill me if he wishes to- it would be a preferrable fate to living in this wretched world he helped create.” This seemed to resonate with Ingvard, as he broke from his slight bemusement to frown at his bloodied, naked ward as he stepped over the floor to seat himself back on the chair.

“I know you do not approve of his method- or the man, for that matter, but-…" Ingvard reached across the table to steal Bartholomew’s attention away from the bottle on the far end of the desk.

The old man had never seemed more ancient as he wrinkled his brow and pleaded with his gray eyes and spoke: “As much as you may wish to leave this world, you are still sorely needed.” Ingvard took a deep breath through his nose before promising: "There are things at play here that I need you to understand."