Chapter 186: BONUS Chapter: A Day in the Life of an Inquisitor.

The underground chamber stank of iron, piss and burnt flesh.

Brother Callum adjusted his leather apron, the thick hide already stained dark from years of use, and regarded the man strapped to the table before him. The prisoner was perhaps thirty years old, thin and pale, with his wrists and ankles bound with iron manacles bolted directly into the stone.

His name was Thomas. Or perhaps it had been Theodore. Brother Callum could not remember, and it did not matter.

After all, this man had been accused of heresy.

The Inquisition chamber beneath the Cathedral of Saint Mardin was small, perhaps just twenty feet square, with walls of rough-hewn stone that wept moisture in the flickering torchlight. A single table dominated the center of the room, its surface scored and stained from countless previous occupants. Along the walls hung the tools of Brother Callum’s trade: iron brands, pliers, knives of various lengths and curvatures, and saws with teeth fine enough to cut through bone without shattering it.

Brother Callum selected a thin blade, testing its edge against his thumb. Blood welled up, bright and red, and he nodded in satisfaction.

“Tell me again,” he said quietly, “what you told your neighbor.”

The man on the table whimpered. His chest was already marked with shallow cuts, methodical lines that formed a grid across his torso. Brother Callum had been working for three hours now, and they had barely begun.

“I… I said…” The man’s voice cracked. “I said the Church asks too much of us—”

“The Church asks what is necessary,” Brother Callum interrupted. His voice was calm, almost gentle.

“The Church’s shields protects you from corruption and its sword smites the abberations of these lands so that you may live on. The Church stands between humanity and the precipice of the Abyss.”

He pressed the blade against the man’s ribs, just hard enough to draw blood.

“But your words are not heresy,” Brother Callum continued. “Complaint is not heresy. Doubt is not heresy.” He paused. “What else did you say, Thomas?”

“Theodore,” the man gasped.

“What else did you say?”

The blade sank deeper, and Theodore screamed.

“I said the Church does not serve thw True God anymore!”

Brother Callum withdrew it and set it carefully on a tray beside the table. He reached for a iron brand, its tip already glowing red from the brazier in the corner.

“I’ll tell you a little secret, Thomas… You see, the Grigori, the very beings that brought the scourge of damnation onto our world, were once considered gods,” he said.

“Fallen gods? Yes. Evil gods? Most definitely. But gods nonetheless. To claim otherwise is to deny the fundamental truth of our world, as a god is a god.”

He pressed the brand against Theodore’s shoulder, and the smell of burning flesh which quickly turned to the smell of scalding bones filled the chamber. All the flesh under the brand had vanished, and the bones beneath were now being burnt black as well.

“And denial of truth is the first step toward corruption.”

When the screaming subsided to ragged sobbing, Brother Callum set the brand aside and wiped his hands on his apron.

“Do you know why heresy is not tolerated?” he asked.

Theodore did not answer. His eyes had rolled back in his head, bloody drool leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Brother Callum slapped him, hard enough to snap his attention back.

“I asked you a question.”

“I… I don’t…”

“Because belief has power.” Brother Callum leaned closer, his face inches from Theodore’s.

“Every prayer, every ritual, every act of faith… These things shape the world. They give form to the formless, and they give structure to chaos. The Grigori were called to this world by belief.”

He straightened. “Your belief, as little as it is, might very well be the catalyst for calling down something absolutely evil down to this world. Do you now understand the severity of your sins?”

Theodore trembled as tears and snot rushed down his face,

“I… I’m sorry—!”

Brother Callum shook his head and selected another tool— a pair of iron pliers with serrated edges.

“The Church maintains order. The Church ensures that the belief of humanity flows into the proper channels, in the proper forms. The Templars stand against physical corruption. On the other hand, the Inquisition stands against spiritual corruption.”

He gripped Theodore’s left hand, positioning the pliers around the smallest finger. “Any belief that runs counter to the Church’s doctrine threatens that order. Any new god born from heretical faith will be a disaster.”

He squeezed, and the finger broke with a wet snap and tear.

Theodore screamed again, thrashing against his bonds, but the iron held. Brother Callum moved to the next finger.

Another finger broke.

“The point is that corruption can be managed. It can be shaped, directed, used. But only if we maintain control. Only if we prevent new sources of corruption from emerging.” He finished with the hand and moved to Theodore’s feet. “Heresy threatens that control. Heresy invites chaos.”

By the time Brother Callum finished with the fingers and toes, Theodore had passed out twice. Each time, Brother Callum had revived him with a bucket of cold water and continued his work.

He picked up the thin blade again.

“So do you recant your beliefs”

Theodore’s lips moved, barely abive a whisper,

“I… I do.”

Brother Callum sighed and set the blade down,

“See that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He wiped his hands clean with a rag set on the stone table,

“A day for your execution will be set. I truly do hope you can find salvation. For your soul’s sake…”

The man on the table began to weep profusely, muttering in a low tone.

Of course, Brother Callum was numb to all that. Seeing as the man had lost all his digits, he was probably too weak to even fight against his restraints, perhaps due to blood loss.

Very soon, the man would be sent to the stake to die under the light of fire.

His ashes would be given to his family alongside a prayer and a few complimentary pieces of silver that would last a few weeks or so.

In the end, everyone won.

Well, not everyone.

Brother Callum cleaned his tools methodically, wiping each one down and hanging it back in its proper place.

He snapped his fingers and the doors to the chamber smashed open.

Two large, burly men with black sackcloth over their faces walked in and unshackled the man to the stone table before pulling him out of the room.

“Bring the next one in!” Brother Callum said calmly as he prepared for the next session of the day.

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