The Forsaken Hero
Chapter 191: Before the Banquet

Chapter 191: Before the Banquet

I gazed at the girl, blinking slowly in the dim light of the crystal. Her vibrant green eyes and dark hair struck a chord deep within me, feeling strangely familiar. Moisture welled up in my eyes, and soon, tears trickled down my cheeks. Then it hit me. Korra. "X-Xiviyah?" she stammered, gasping as I threw my arms around her.

After a moment of hesitation, she returned my embrace, her arms gently encircling my frail shoulders, her fingers soothingly stroking my long, crimson hair. Sobs wracked my body, wave after wave, as I wept into her shoulder. All the pain, darkness, and anguish I’d kept bottled up poured out of me, a torrent so intense that I barely noticed the awkwardness with which she held me.

Finally, she laid her hands on my shoulders and drew me away, staring at me deeply. Her familiar face was tinged with unease, and I felt a heavy lump forming in my chest.

"Xiviyah...Did you...did you really..." she said, pausing as though not knowing how to continue. After a few seconds, she took a deep breath and looked at me directly, any hint of hesitation gone. "I heard everything, and I have to know. Is it true what they said in the trial? About the Western University?"

I froze, a shiver running down my spine and out to the tip of my tail. Her gaze was sincere, but for the first time, I noticed a hint of wariness hidden within her expression. It was subtle, just a slight tightening around her eyes, but it shook me to my core. She sighed heavily as I hesitated, seeming to withdraw even further. The slave crest buzzed, lighting up with a faint glow, forcing the words from my lips. "Y-yes," I stammered, bowing my head. She was silent for a moment, but her hands tightened on my shoulders, betraying her inner turmoil. My tail curled anxiously, but I felt rooted to the spot, unable to even breathe. "Korra?" I asked tentatively. She flinched at her name, or perhaps it was the sound of my voice, and stepped back, rising to her feet. "But how could you...?" she trailed off, rubbing her temples. "No, it doesn’t matter. I-I just need to think." My heart sank, and I lowered my head, closing my eyes. Her footsteps echoed in the small, dimly lit room, followed by the sharp click of the door shutting. She was gone, taking the warmth and light she’d brought with her. I slumped back onto the floor, hands clasped loosely in my lap. My injuries were gone, and I was dressed in a simple slave gown. But who could have...? I raised my head, glancing at the door, and a new wave of sorrow washed over me. There was no justifying it, no escaping the truth. I had chosen to save Elise, and in doing so, I had condemned thousands of innocent lives. Even without my intervention, Soltair would have defeated the demon, minimizing the casualties. Fate had known, had even told Elise I would save her. Why had she done that? Was this the path she wanted for me? She’d set me up, then abandoned me to this agonizing guilt! I knew I was being unfair, but for the first time in months, I clenched my small fists in frustration. However, as I recalled the final, sorrowful glimmer in Korra’s gaze, the anger faded, replaced by a dull bleakness. What did it even matter anymore? What was done was done, and now Korra hated me. That last part stung more than I wanted to admit. Had she known someone who had died in the battle? Or was she simply disappointed by my perceived betrayal?

Time crawled by, but eventually, I managed to pull myself up, using the edge of the stiff, straw mattress for support. The strange, new type of slave crest, designed to restrict my soul, had been loosened slightly, allowing me to access a fraction of my power, about third level. It wasn’t much, especially compared to my previous strength, but it was the only comfort I had in this bleak situation.

After casting a few Life Magic spells, healing the constant ache pervading my muscles, I collapsed on the bed and closed my eyes. Judging by the situation, I’d slept for an entire day at the very least before, but my body felt as though I hadn’t even closed my eyes. My stomach rumbled, twisting painfully, reminding me I hadn’t eaten in perhaps a week. Nothing was stopping me from leaving and finding the slave kitchen, they served all hours of the day, but I couldn’t find the strength.

Another day crawled by, leaving me trapped in my unchanging cell. I spent most of it in restless slumber, only to awake and stare at the cold stone walls. The soft, steady glow of the crystal was my sole marker of time, dimming at night and flickering with each passing hour. This was perhaps my just reward: hunger, isolation, and darkness.

Hours into the second day following the Inquisition, the door opened. My pointed ears twitched at the sound, but I made no move to turn and look. It didn’t matter who it was; they were only here to hurt me.

"Rise, slave," a woman’s voice said.

I took a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut. I could feel a greasy thread connecting me to the speaker, meaning they held my ring.

The slave crest sparked, sending a wave of pain through my veins. I thrashed on the bed for a minute before my struggles took me to the cold hard floor. As the punishment ended, the impatient voice rang again.

"Don’t make me repeat myself, filthblood."

Every breath tore through my throat, strained and raw from all of my screams the day before. Swallowing the pain, I struggled to my feet and faced the woman, keeping my eyes lowered submissively. I could make out the fine blue silks of her lower skirts and soft brown leather boots.

"The Pope has summoned you. Couldn’t you at least try to maintain your appearance?" she huffed, turning, her skirts twirling gracefully.

I flinched involuntarily, my hand instinctively rising to smooth a long strand of crimson hair. It was far longer than I remembered, hanging nearly to the middle of my back, but now a tangled, matted mess. Grime clung to the strands, interspersed with crusty flecks of dried blood. I couldn’t recall the last time I had bathed. It had been too long – certainly since before the Inquisition, perhaps even as far back as my time at the Western University. Normally, maintaining my appearance was a simple matter of magic, but that familiar comfort had become a distant memory.

As I stumbled after her, legs weak and trembling, I suddenly recalled the feeling of mana in my soul. Someone had used the ring to loosen the artificial Soul Binding, created by the new curse magic the inquisitors invented, and allow me second-level mana. I Soul Cast a few spells when no one was looking, quickly cleaning the worst of the filth and dried blood from my body. A few wounds remained from the days of torture, so I took care of those.

A long, heavy sigh escaped my lips as the unpleasant heat and sting of the lingering wounds left my body. Korra, if she were truly the one who had healed me, didn’t have much talent for Life Magic, and had left much undone both on the inside and outside of my body.

It was surprising how easily Soul Casting came to me now, even if they were only first and second-circle spells. It didn’t feel so long ago that I was struggling to cast even a simple Aegis, or even come up with the method in the first place. The Inquisitors had stolen that from me, but it would be a long, painful journey before they were able to replicate even a portion of my skill.

I winced, bringing a hand to my head. Remembering those long, agonizing days of the Inquisition brought nothing but tortured thoughts, so I quickly pushed them away, focusing on taking one step after the other. That was simple enough, as my entire body was exhausted. I was out of breath before we made it out of the slave quarters, and panting heavily when we finally stopped.

She turned suddenly, catching me off guard. I backed away, keeping my eyes on the ground, my tail swishing warily.

"You are to perform as directed," the woman said curtly. "The Pope will not stand for a mere slave drawing attention to themselves. Sit where you are told and keep to yourself. When it is time, the Pope will order you to stand. Afterward, confess yourself to anyone who asks. Do not do or say anything that might tarnish the church’s reputation."

Her commands were short and terse, a series of fractured sentences, but the slave crest recognized them all the same. She waited expectantly, tapping her foot on the ground. With a jolting realization, I dipped a faint curtsey and whispered, "Yes, master."

She turned again and led me forward, through the familiar hallways leading to the Grand Banquet hall. I trudged behind with a heavy heart, now certain of where we were going and what was going to happen. As the Grand Inquisitor said, the Pope would want to parade me around and demonstrate to the world they had conquered the fallen, demonkin hero.

The sounds of merriment and festivities echoed through the stone passages, slowly growing louder. Servants streamed through going both ways, carrying dishes heaped with food or taking those already picked clean. They cast us curious stares but shied away the moment they met the gaze of the woman. Curious myself, I raised my eyes just enough to make out the symbol of the inquisitors on her back and hurriedly looked away. That was all I needed to know.

My stomach churned as we approached the ornate and gilded double doors leading to the banquet hall. More terrifying than being paraded before the nobles and priests was the fact that I had to face the other heroes. Many of them had scorned and ostracized me, but we shared a connection none else could understand. We had been chosen by the gods and left our worlds behind, embarking on new and exciting adventures here in Enusia.

I wished I could have enjoyed it with them, but now, driven by circumstance, I must face their...what? Anger? Disappointment? Indifference? I was far from ready, especially to see Korra gain, but the inquisitor didn’t hesitate, throwing the doors open. Whatever they felt, it was time to find out.