Flames of Doubt - Chapter 2: The Road

The road east wound through farmland for the first three days, past fields harvested bare for winter and villages preparing for the cold months ahead. Petro and his company made good time, the weather holding clear and cold. Frost crunched under hooves each morning, and by afternoon the sun had warmed the road enough to raise dust from the hard-packed earth.

Petro watched the villages they passed. Smoke rose from chimneys in thin gray columns. Women drew water from wells, pausing to gossip and laugh. Children played in the open without fear—kicking balls, chasing each other, making up games with sticks and stones. Dogs barked and ran with them. Old men sat on benches outside taverns, watching the world go by.

Normal life. Simple life.

His jaw tightened as he watched the children. One in fifty, the Church estimated. Latent power that might manifest during crisis or terror. His hands found his reins and gripped until his knuckles whitened.

Brother Marcus rode at Petro's right hand. He was a lean man in his late twenties, dark-haired and intense, with eyes that seemed to constantly search for threats. His jaw was permanently tight, as if he was always clenching against something—pain, rage, or perhaps the constant vigilance that hunting required. He'd been hunting magic users for five years, ever since his younger sister had been killed by a witch's curse—or so the story went. Petro had never pressed for details.

"How many do you think are at the Citadel?" Marcus asked as they rode through an empty stretch of road. "The Council said dozens, but that seems conservative. If they've been fleeing there for months..."

"Could be a hundred," Petro said. "Could be more. We won't know until we scout it properly."

"A hundred demons gathered in one place." Marcus's hand drifted to his sword hilt. "The True God has delivered them to us for judgment."

Knight Thomas rode just behind them. He was twenty-two, eager and competent but still green. This was his first witch hunt, though he'd served admirably in border skirmishes against raiders.

"Sir Petro," Thomas called out, "have you ever faced more than one magic user at a time?"

"Twice," Petro said. "Once, a husband and wife, both with minor abilities. Fire-starting, mostly. They'd burned down a rival merchant's warehouse."

"And?" Marcus prompted.

"They resisted arrest. Both died." Petro's grip on his reins loosened, then tightened again. He stared straight ahead at the road.

"The second time," Petro continued, "was a coven of three. They called themselves priestesses of Mithras."

Thomas leaned forward in his saddle. "The demon god?"

Marcus's spine stiffened. "There is only one god. Mithras is a demon that deceives the weak-minded into worship."

"Regardless of what they called it," Petro said, "they had power. Real power. They could... manipulate minds. Make you see things that weren't there. It took me three days to track them, and when I finally cornered them, they nearly escaped by making me believe the building was on fire."

"How did you overcome it?" Thomas asked.

"Pain," Petro said simply. "I stabbed my own leg. The real pain cut through the illusion. Once I knew what they were doing, I could resist it."

"Resourceful," Marcus approved. "The True God rewards those who are willing to sacrifice."

They rode in silence for a while. The two other knights—Gareth and William—kept to themselves mostly. They were older, experienced soldiers who'd volunteered for the mission. Good men to have in a fight, even if they lacked Marcus's zealotry or Thomas's youth.

That evening, they made camp near a small village. The innkeeper was happy to provide hot food and beds for traveling knights. Over stew and bread, the conversation turned to the Collapse.

"Tell me about it," Thomas said, addressing the table generally. "I've heard stories, but... what actually happened? My tutors always said magic users tried to overthrow the True God and were punished for their hubris."

"That's close enough," Marcus said, tearing off a chunk of bread. "They grew arrogant. Thought their powers made them gods. They built the Citadels—massive fortresses powered by magic, monuments to their pride."

"But something went wrong," Gareth added. He was the oldest among them, gray-bearded and scarred. "They were fighting among themselves—competing schools of magic, each thinking they were superior. They created weapons. Terrible weapons."

"One of the weapons was unleashed," Marcus continued. "No one knows exactly what it was—some kind of spell that destroyed everything in its path. Entire cities vanished. The land itself was scarred. Millions died."

"The Church stepped in," Petro said, picking up the thread. "Before the Collapse, the Church and magic users coexisted uneasily. But after... there was no choice. Magic had proven itself too dangerous."

"For the good of everyone," Marcus added firmly. "It wasn't cruelty. It was necessity."

Thomas frowned. "But what about people who are just born with it? Who never chose to have magic? Are they responsible for what others did centuries ago?"

The table went quiet. Petro's hand wrapped around his ale mug, squeezing.

Marcus's eyes went hard as flint. "A viper is a viper, whether it chooses to be born with venom or not. You don't let it live because it might not bite you."

"Magic corrupts," Petro said, his voice flat. "Even if someone is born with it, even if they mean well at first... power corrupts. It always does."

Thomas nodded slowly, but Petro saw doubt in the young knight's eyes.

Petro set down his mug, his gaze distant. "Let me tell you about my town."

The others looked at him. He rarely spoke about his past, and they knew it.

"I was a boy, maybe ten winters old. Poor. Abused by my father. He was a drunk who spent what little money we had on ale and beat my mother when she complained." Petro's voice was flat. His hands lay motionless on the table. "I spent my days hiding in alleys and scrounging for food, stealing when I had to, begging when I could. I had a friend—Suzanne, the girl I eventually married. She was kinder than I deserved. Shared her bread with me even though her family barely had enough."

His thumb traced the grain of the wooden table, back and forth.

"One day, Imperial Knights came. They'd discovered that the Duke and many of the townspeople secretly worshiped Mithras. They held a trial, executed the guilty. It should have ended there."

He paused. The others waited.

"But there was a boy—Hank, the Guard Captain's son. When they gave him a chance to recant, to renounce Mithras and accept the True God... he refused. More than that, he declared Mithras as his god. Proudly. Defiantly."

Thomas leaned forward, his voice dropping. "What happened?"

"The priest was holding a holy symbol—a golden amulet. When he touched the boy to drag him to the guillotine... the boy's power manifested. Mithras's power, or magic, or whatever you want to call it. The priest burst into flames. Burned alive in seconds."

Marcus made a sign against evil.

"The crowd panicked," Petro continued, his voice never changing pitch. "Some tried to save the priest. Others saw it as a sign that Mithras was real, that the Church was wrong. Fighting broke out. The knights tried to restore order but it was too late. The heretics were emboldened. They fought back. By morning, hundreds were dead. The town was destroyed."

"And you survived," Gareth said.

"I hid." Petro's jaw muscles twitched. "I hid in an alley with my friend Suzanne while people died around us. When Sir Martin found us in the morning, the town was ash and corpses."

"That's not cowardice," Thomas said. "You were a child."

Petro said nothing. His eyes fixed on the far wall.

"I learned something that day," he said finally. "I learned that magic—even when used by someone who thinks they're righteous—leads to death. Hank probably thought he was defending his faith. Standing up to oppression. Being brave."

"And instead he caused a massacre," Marcus finished.

"Exactly." Petro's hand found his amulet through his shirt. "That's why the law must be absolute."

The table was silent for a long moment.

"That's why you hunt," Thomas said finally. "You're preventing another massacre."

"Every single day," Petro confirmed.

But his hand stayed on the amulet. His thumb rubbed circles against the metal through the fabric.

They left the village the next morning and pressed deeper into the eastern territories. The land here was less settled, with forests thick and roads poorly maintained. They passed fewer travelers, and those they did encounter were wary.

On the fifth day, they met a family on the road—husband, wife, and three young children packed into a rickety wagon pulled by an old mule.

"Where are you headed?" Petro asked, bringing his horse alongside.

The man was gaunt, nervous. "West. Toward Westminster."

"Fleeing something?"

The man glanced at his wife, who held the youngest child tight. "Trouble. In the east. We heard... there are witch hunters in the region. We don't want to get caught up in Church business."

Marcus's expression didn't change. "We are the Church business. If you're innocent, you have nothing to fear."

"That's what they said in our village," the woman spoke up, her voice sharp despite her obvious fear. "Before they hanged Old Thomas for making charms to help his crops grow. He was eighty-two years old and never hurt anyone in his life."

"Charms are magic," Marcus said. "The law is clear."

"The law is cruel," she shot back. "He helped feed half the village."

"Enough," Petro said, raising a hand. "You're free to go. Travel safely."

The man quickly urged his mule forward, eager to put distance between his family and the knights. As they rolled past, one of the children—a girl no more than seven—stared at Petro with huge, frightened eyes.

His hand moved to his sword hilt. Not reaching for it. Just... resting there. He looked away.

Two days later, they encountered a different sort of traveler—a merchant's cart heading east, laden with supplies.

"That's unusual," Gareth observed. "Not many traders head deeper into the territories this time of year."

Petro flagged down the cart. The merchant was a heavyset man with shrewd eyes and road-worn clothes.

"Where are you headed?" Petro asked.

"East." The merchant's eyes flicked to the knights' weapons before returning to Petro's face. "Got customers who pay well."

"Customers near the old Citadel?" Petro pressed.

The merchant's face closed off. "I don't ask my customers where they live. I just deliver goods."

"What kind of goods?" Marcus demanded.

"Food. Cloth. Tools. Normal things. All legal."

Petro's jaw set. "You're supplying the Citadel. You're aiding heretics."

"I'm supplying people who pay in good coin," the merchant countered. "Whether they're heretics or not isn't my concern. I don't enforce Church law—that's your job."

"We could arrest you," Marcus said, hand on his sword.

"You could," the merchant agreed. "But I haven't broken any secular laws. I'm licensed to trade. If the Church wants to ban commerce with certain areas, that's their right, but they haven't officially done so yet."

He was right, technically. Frustratingly right.

"What are they like?" Petro asked. "The people at the Citadel. What did you see?"

The merchant considered, clearly weighing whether answering would get him in more trouble.

"Families," he said finally. "Old people. Children. Some with magic, some without. They're just... people. Frightened people who don't want to be hanged for something they were born with."

"They're heretics fleeing justice," Marcus snapped.

"Maybe," the merchant shrugged. "Or maybe they're just tired of watching their children burn. Not my place to judge."

He urged his horse forward, and the cart rumbled past them. Petro let him go.

Marcus's hand tightened on his reins, his knuckles white. "We should have arrested him."

"For what?" Petro asked. "He's right—he hasn't technically broken any law. And we'd have to escort him back to Westminster for trial, which would delay our mission."

"He'll warn them we're coming."

"They probably already know. We're not exactly subtle—five armed knights riding east."

Marcus subsided, but his expression remained dark.

Petro's horse shifted beneath him, and he loosened the reins he hadn't realized he'd been tightening.

That night, camped under the stars, Thomas approached Petro as he checked his weapons.

The young knight crouched beside him, keeping his voice low. "Sir, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"That family we met. The woman who talked about Old Thomas, the man who was hanged. Do you think... was his magic actually harmless? Just crop charms?"

Petro cleaned his sword blade methodically. The cloth moved in slow, precise strokes. "Probably. Most hedge magic is minor. Harmless in the moment."

"Then why was he executed?"

"Because it's not about whether the magic is currently harmless." He held the blade up to catch the firelight, examining the edge. "It's about what it could become. Magic grows with use. What starts as crop charms can turn into controlling weather, causing droughts, destroying entire harvests. Better to stop it early."

"But he was eighty-two," Thomas pressed. "He'd been using it his whole life and never grew more powerful. Never hurt anyone."

"That we know of." Petro sheathed the sword with more force than necessary. "Thomas, you're thinking of magic users as individuals. That's natural, but it's wrong. You have to think of them as threats to everyone else. One old man with crop charms seems harmless. But if we let him live, others see that magic is tolerated. They start using their powers openly. More children are born with abilities. Within a generation, magic is common again. And then..."

"The Collapse," Thomas finished quietly.

"Exactly. We don't have the luxury of mercy. The stakes are too high."

Thomas nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

The next day brought rain, cold and steady. They rode through it in miserable silence, their cloaks soaked through. The road became mud, slowing their progress.

It was late afternoon when Gareth suddenly pointed ahead. "There. Through the rain."

Petro squinted through the downpour. At first, he saw nothing but gray sheets of rain and darker gray trees. Then, as they crested a hill, he saw it.

The Citadel of Light.

It rose from the eastern horizon like a mountain of stone and ancient magic, impossibly tall, its walls smooth and unmarked by time. Towers spiraled upward, their peaks lost in the rain clouds. Even from this distance—still many miles away—it was massive, dwarfing anything Petro had ever seen.

"Dear God," Thomas breathed.

"That was built by magic," Marcus said, his voice tight with anger and... something else. Fear, perhaps. "That monument to evil has stood for centuries."

Petro stared at the Citadel, rain running down his face. The merchant had said families lived there. Children. Frightened people seeking refuge.

But the structure itself was undeniably a product of the same power that had nearly destroyed the world. The same power that had killed hundreds in his town. The same power he'd spent his adult life hunting.

"We'll camp here tonight," Petro decided. "Tomorrow, we get closer. Start scouting properly."

"And then?" William asked.

Petro never took his eyes off the distant Citadel. His hand found his amulet again.

"Then we do what we came to do," he said. "We find out how many of them there are. What they're planning. Whether they're truly a threat."

Marcus's jaw tightened. "They're demons. Of course they're a threat."

But Petro found himself remembering the little girl's frightened eyes, the woman's words about the eighty-two-year-old man with crop charms, the merchant's description of families and children.

His gaze stayed fixed on the distant towers. "We'll see."

That night, lying in his sodden bedroll under inadequate shelter, Petro fingered the golden amulet around his neck. The priest had worn it when he burned. Worn it when he executed Petro's neighbors. Worn it as a symbol of absolute faith in the True God.

His thumb traced the familiar grooves in the metal. He turned onto his side, facing the fire. His other hand pressed flat against his chest.

Sleep, when it came, was restless and haunted.