Rupert reached for the urn next to him, staring at it with disbelief. He hadn’t experienced an illusion of that complexity before, it was far too realistic and unsettling. He had been trapped within, under the illusion’s command until it finished displaying those scenes for him. He couldn’t resist or break out of it.

Any of his usual strategies failed to work, and Rupert was meant to be within the upper echelons of Cymorth in terms of power. This was rare, indeed. Had a country’s Malevolent system made a breakthrough that Cymorth didn’t know of? If so, it would be dangerous.

Rupert eventually stood, shaken by the repeated illusions that engulfed him. He took deep breaths, straightening his clothes to recover his calm. He felt dirt as he touched them, and he patted down his coat and breeches. Both mud and ash were dusted off, which surprised him.

He looked around and realised that he had woken up inside the tent. The workers lay on the floor nearby, unconscious, lying on a mixture of mud and ash. This was contrary to both images in the first illusion. The illusion showed that the floor was only ever made of one of the two substances. They never together, and certainly not mixed.

Here, a pile of soot had been spread into the earth carelessly. The traitor evidently didn’t care to hide the remains of the corpse. Though, considering the power of the illusions, it would have certainly kept most from finding the remains. They were fortunate that he chose to investigate personally.

From this, Rupert suspected that the traitor and her organisation had used powerful Malevolency to hide their activities. It must’ve activated as they entered the tent to begin their investigations.

He woke the workers up, lightly slapping their cheeks until they broke from their reverie. They each shuddered as they realised that they had been engulfed in an illusion, the same illusion as each other.

Rupert paused for a moment, recalling the events within both illusions. He remembered the change in the bracelet’s appearance, and when he touched it, it had triggered the film - the set of images. Also, he was sure that he had touched it the first time he entered the tent. That had been the catalyst of the change. It enabled him to move between the illusion’s layers.

He walked over to the woman’s luggage and picked up the bracelet. It was ornate, made of materials that few could hope to purchase. It would bankrupt even lesser nobles of the aristocracy. The black crystal had shattered, yet small remnants of it remained. However, when he touched it now, he did not get sent into an illusion. Its supernatural powers had evaporated.

Rupert took a handkerchief from his pocket and placed the bracelet carefully inside. ‘I need to keep this safe.’ He thought to himself.

With the bracelet and the urn in safe keeping, he made the workers temporarily preserve the tent. He did not want it to be disturbed in case they needed it once more before the continued their march.

Then, in contemplation, he pushed the flaps of the tent away, striding towards the war tent which held the tribunal. He contained enough evidence to convict the woman, the urn and bracelet inside his pockets.

‘Was there an illusionist present? Or was it an array… It should be an array considering how it managed to snare all of those who entered inside it. However, when I was outside the tent, I could see them working within… The array could also influence the senses of those outside. How strange…’ Rupert considered.

‘Hmm. Something was also wrong with that onyx… Why did it take me into another illusion when I touched it for the second time? What was its meaning? Could it be related to that faction which the corpse and the traitor worked for?’ He mused to himself.

Rupert looked into the sky to find that the sun had passed its noon position. It was the afternoon already.

‘Damnation.’ He thought to himself. ‘It seems like it will be a late march today, though it will be short.’

His musings disrupted, Rupert finally arrived at the tent and entered inside. The tent was much different from the last time he entered; it was far too quiet.

———

Cythraul was disrupted from his musings as murmurs flickered through the crowd of officers. He had been preoccupied with reading letters in preparation for his diplomatic task. The task bestowed upon him required a lot of work to be done in advance, and his spare time was dedicated to it.

He looked up in time to see Rupert pushing into the tent, his stature and aura overpowering the weaker soldiers near him. He drew the attention of all those who waited for the continuation of the tribunal.

“What are your findings?” Cythraul asked.

“The reason why we couldn’t find a corpse was because the woman burnt it to char. She attempted to hide the evidence through an illusion; but I broke through it to find the remains, her ashes. I have the evidence here.” Rupert responded, withdrawing the urn from his pocket. He passed it over to Cythraul, who examined the remains.

Cythraul gave a cold smile. “We have the evidence to convict her. Bring her forth for her final questioning.”

Some guards exited the room, and they returned with the traitor manacled and worse for wear. She was marched in front of the judges under a barrage of curses and insults.

The mob began to writhe, with some members of the crowd being forced back by the guards who retained their rationality. What was once anger had time to morph into something different. There was a vague savagery that the crowd succumbed to; it was an uncontrollable, primal rage.

One of the guards separated from the group and returned with a chair. They sat her down, locking her onto it with separate manacles. They clicked shut, shackling her wrists to the back of the chair, and feet to its legs. Metallic screeches reverberated throughout the room as she tried to resist while crying out and screaming.

A man in white robes and a hood entered the room with a case in hand. He stood at the edge of the room nonchalantly.

“You have been found guilty by the tribunal court. We have witness testimonies and evidence of your treachery. For your crimes, you are to be sentenced to death in a public execution.” Cythraul shouted and the crowd jeered.

“However, you did not commit this crime alone. You have the support of an organisation. Specifically, it is a coalition made up of scum necromancers. We will not let you be martyred to their cause without a price.”

“Who are they, and where do you hail from?” Cythraul ordered. The woman didn’t respond, her head was down turned, and her eyes looked to the floor with vacant curiosity. Her hair, disgustingly greasy, was matted to her skull.

“Answer! What organisation employed your services in this contemptible attempt of a conspiracy?” He roared.

She raised her head, though her eyes were still hazed over. She remained unresponsive to the questioning, instead choosing to mutter something under her breath. Cythraul heard traces of it, mentioning God, a savior, and repentance. His eyes were locked onto her, waiting.

The wildness grew, and the room fell into discord. Bestial savagery had reared its head, choosing not to hide anymore. It spread throughout the crowd at a rapid pace. Their rage became a piercing dissonance, a tribute to a cruel retribution.

Cythraul grew distracted by the cacophony within the room, breaking his concentration on the woman’s whispers. He turned towards the crowd, taking in their changes for the first time. However, he didn’t think much of it yet as he was blind to the more extreme traits which were hidden amongst them.

“Silence!” He yelled, but only part of the crowd was quelled.

He glared at the guards, and they acted. They apprehended the most animated officers and marched them out of the tent. They fought to return but were repelled by an onslaught. The guards viciously cut down some of the weaker officers, injuring others.

Unable to enter, the disgraced officers stalked the entrance of tent. They had to witness the trial; justice must be served. The woman had to die! There was no other way. They would not accept a different outcome.

Common soldiers joined the crowd, slowly becoming enthralled by the officer’s desires.

Inside, Cythraul looked at the woman. Her eyes had cleared, and she was no longer murmuring to herself.

“You are testing my patience, traitor. You have one more chance to answer my questions properly.” Cythraul growled. “What organisation are you apart of?”

“None.” She replied, staring into Cythraul’s eyes. “God commanded me to assist his other apostle.”

“The old woman who gave the prophecy?”

“Yes.”

“How were you to assist?” Cythraul asked.

“To burn the corpse. To clean the site. To ensure its delivery.” She responded.

“Why dispose of the corpse? If you left it as proof, it would have garnered a greater shock factor. By removing the body, your message would have been forgotten. Who would trust a 16 year old boy? You wouldn’t be able to promote your future assassination attempt, the theatrics lost to the unbelieving.” Cythraul cupped his hands in frustration.

“You are wrong!” She laughed in contempt.

“What do you mean?” Cythraul demanded. The woman’s eyes glazed over once more as she ignored him and continued to mutter to herself, delirious.

Cythraul grew impatient. With eyes filled with fire, looked towards the man in all white.

“Get the hag to speak.” Cythraul commanded.

The man in white walked over to the woman tied to the chair and set his case upon the floor. He opened its straps to reveal a series of horrific metal instruments. Specifically instruments of torture.

The crowd cheered with unbridled mania. They had lost all rationality and had succumbed to this barbaric mob mentality. Cythraul looked towards the guards, but they too were delirious.

One guard took from another a knife. He put his fingers to the blade and dragged it down upon his flesh. His skin was carved from his hand. He voluntarily flayed himself. Once the ragged skin fell to the floor, he cut the ligaments and tendons with the knife, then continued to slice his hand open. Blood violently erupted, cascading to the floor, staining himself and those around him crimson.

Cythraul called out to Rupert, and they stood defensively in front of the chained woman. The judges joined them, and they formed a protective unit around her, letting the torturer continue with his work.

The robed man delicately picked up a chisel and hammer. He cradled it in his arms, then placed the chisel above the woman’s largest toe and smashed down with the hammer.

Crack!

The woman screamed in pain. The crowd joined the woman’s screams. They sang with her as if to mock her, treating it like the chorus of a song.

Cythraul moved his face in front of the woman’s. “I asked you, what do you mean?”

Her screams morphed into an insane laughter, though it abruptly broke.

“Your guess… it was just wrong. Wrong! It was a prophecy from God! Why would we need theatrics?” Her voice hoarse, escaped from her mouth.

“Then why give it to Isten?” Cythraul responded.

“Because… That’s what God demanded of us.” She whispered. Devotion had filled her eyes.

“Don’t play games.” Cythraul replied coolly. The torturer moved the chisel to the next toe. Crunch!

She shrieked a guttural, vile scream. Her voice grew hoarse and her pain only heightened. The crowd’s cacophony grew in turn, turning into a frenzy. An officer in the crowd charged at the woman. He drew upon his Malevolent energy and channelled it into his backsword.

“Crystallise!” He yelled. An intangible crystalline blade formed around the metal, which he swung horizontally from right to left.

Clang!

Rupert parried the blow with his own longsword.

“Fire!” Rupert channelled his cadmium red Malevolency through the longsword and a fire flickered, coating the blade. With a swift diagonal cut, the longsword cleaved the officer through the shoulder and ended in his pelvis. The fire cauterised the flesh. It burnt his internal organs. He died almost instantaneously.

A foul smell permeated the air and stunned the crowd from action. Rupert killed the officer precipitately, and the maddened mob felt threatened by the display of overbearing power. Like a cowed beast, it hung back. Their eyes glistening for another chance to strike.

“Why give the prophecy to Isten?” Cythraul asked callously.

“We don’t know why! We enact God’s commandments! Passing the prophecy to Isten was a command!” She howled in pain.

The crowd droned in response, regaining its momentum despite Rupert’s deterrent.

“Who is your God?” Cythraul asked.

The woman screeched a dissonant cry in response. It grated upon everyone’s ears in the tent, and it escaped into the nearby encampment. The crowd responded to her cry with one of its own, encouraging her to take her final step.

“Go forth!”

“It is time!”

“Too long!”

“Hail our return!”

A unified command ordered the woman from the crowd. Its speech was incoherent to Cythraul, he could not understand what it meant.

However, he didn’t need to. Cythraul saw what he thought to be a black door open in space next to her. A withered, disgusting hand passed through and touched the woman on the face.

Her head exploded into a bloody, pulpy mess. Gore splattered onto Cythraul’s face, it stained the torturer’s white robes, the judges’ garb, and finally coated Rupert’s back.

From her empty neck, countless monstrous tendrils discharged into the air above her body. Each tendril was still connected to her body, and they throbbed as blood and gore pumped through them.

Like a snake, the tendrils smelt the air as they swayed, familiarising itself with the surrounding area. Finally, they coordinated themselves and targeted Cythraul, the provocateur. The one who caused her to fall into an endless insanity. The one who forced her to forsake herself, to protect herself.