Chapter 217: Candle in the Dark (1).

There was no difference. There was none whatsoever.

Once death came, there would only be eternal suffering. There was no paradise, there was no salvation.

And Vane didn’t know this, because of the Church’s indoctrination.

Nero couldn’t help but tremble in fear.

By just sprinkling in a bit of lies with the truth, the entire narrative had been changed. Flipped right on its head.

What was meant to be a less than ideal fate had turned into an image of rare grace in this cursed world. Those who would die for the church would find purpose, even in death.

And those who wouldn’t, would be doomed forever and ever.

Such a thing was…

’Absolutely despicable.’

Nero’s hands unclenched slowly. He lowered them to his sides and opened his eyes, the golden tint in them fading as he released his connection to the Oracle.

Sergeant Vane still stood beside him, his lips moving silently. The prayer continued, unhurried and reverent.

Nero stared at the candle above the grave. The flame burned steady and golden, unwavering in the still air.

He wondered if the dead did scream. If they did, even now, after however many years had passed…

He wondered if the soul knew it was suffering, or if the torment was inflicted on a much deeper level, something above the immaterial consciousness, something that couldn’t be understood or escaped.

Nero felt his vision swirl with the redundancy of his thoughts.

He wondered if the darkened candles, the ones whose flames had gone out, represented souls that had been fully consumed and erased, or if they’d somehow found release.

He shook his head and remembered what the Oracle had said,

They would simply lose their way.

Was that freedom, perhaps.

Or was it oblivion.

He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

The scents of the dead filled his nostrils again, thick and cloying. A strange feeling filled him.

He remembered the smoke rising into the dark grey sky.

He remembered the strong stench of blood, smoke, and fire.

In the end, if only damnation was waiting at the end of the road, was there truly any point in living?

Nero frowned.

Perhaps there was.

According to the Oracle, at least.

Maybe this was his purpose.

Nero’s gaze drifted away from the wax candle and swept across the vast chamber.

He did not believe in the gods.

He thought of them lowly and cruel. Perhaps, that is what they were, even before their corruption, he couldn’t be sure as he had not gazed upon their divinity.

What of the Divine One? If it had not turned its gaze away, then there would still be salvation. The world would not have been swallowed by darkness.

He didn’t believe in the Divine One as well.

Why would such a being, supposedly omnipotent, turn its back on everything else and watch it all rot away?

In the end, most of these things were still mysteries to him.

His curiosity turned with a furious rage, flickering and unfettered unlike the still flames surrounding him.

He wanted to know.

He wanted to know it all.

The Sergeant’s prayer ended.

Sergeant Vane opened his eyes and lowered his hands. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the wrapped body that lay in the ground. His weathered face was unreadable, but something in his posture spoke of a grief that had long since becomias weary as the lines etched into his face.

Then he straightened, and the moment passed.

He turned and began walking back toward the entrance without a word.

Nero followed, his footsteps echoing in the vast chamber. As they left, he tried not to look at the candles they passed along the way.

Regardless, his eyes ended up drifting to them again and again.

The stairs loomed ahead, the metal doors still standing open. Beyond them, the corridor stretched back into the Red House proper, just as cold and devoid of life and warmth as the crypt down below. The only difference was a sharp, tangy note in the air— the scent of Darksteel.

Nero climbed the stairs slowly, his body aching with every step. The cold air of the crypt gave way to the slightly warmer, mustier air of the corridors above. The sounds of the Red House returned; the distant footsteps, the clang of metal from the training yard, and muffled voices echoing off the stone walls.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Sergeant Vane paused.

He turned to face Nero, his weathered face hard once more. The softness from earlier had vanished completely, replaced by the same almost cruel glare he’d worn during training.

“Tomorrow,” he said. His voice was flat, emotionless. “Early hours. Right after the mass. Do not be late.”

Nero nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Vane’s eyes narrowed slightly. He studied Nero for a long moment, as though searching for something in his face. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t seem to find it.

Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Nero stood alone in the corridor.

The door to the crypt still stood open below the flight of stairs behind him. He looked back at it, only for a moment.

Nero turned away and began limping toward his chambers. His ribs still throbbed with each breath. His legs felt weak and unsteady. The welts on his face and arms pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

He barely seemed to notice, however.

His thoughts were still in the darkness.

Nero’s chamber was small and sparse, with a bed, a chair, and a small table with a basin of water for washing.

Compared to the dank straw of the dungeons, and the bug-laden fields of the wilderness, this was comparable to luxury for him.

The barred window overlooked the courtyard, offering a view of packed dirt and training dummies and racks of weapons that gleamed dully in the grey light.

After a whole day of suffering, it felt like he would find only solace here.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the window for a moment.

Beyond it, the courtyard stretched out in a mutiny of colors amber, indigo, and waning blue, as the dark of night descended.

A few shadows moved through the space, their armor clanking softly as they walked. The sky above was grey, thick with clouds that seemed to be frozen in time.

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