Created me divine Omnipotence,   

The highest Wisdom and the primal Love. 

(Inscription above the gates of Hell, Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy)

Lyn  

The executed shifter’s eyes were hollow pits. Maybe they had been gouged out, or seared with boiling vinegar poured from a goblet, or scorched by slowly rotating a red-hot iron to dim the vision gradually — executioners were often inventive. But more than the eyes, it was the shattered hands that drew attention. Tied to the horizontal beam of the cross, they were grotesquely swollen, bent at impossible angles, their shapes unrecognizable. Lyn felt bile rising to his throat.

The other two executed figures — heretics or those who had sheltered the shifter — still hung on their crosses, not yet dead. At least one was alive; at first, his cries had been inhuman, the memory of which still reverberated in Lyn’s ears. Now the sound had diminished to guttural groans, and even those grew fainter.

The shifter was dead, likely long dead. Her face, now slack with death, looked strangely serene, her muscles relaxed.

Her, Lyn realized. It was a woman. Underneath the blood-crusted black mask covering half her face, her sex was unclear, but for humiliation, her naked body was displayed — small, sharp breasts now blistered red under the merciless sun. A woman… What did it matter? Assigning gender to something so clearly and hopelessly lifeless felt absurd.
A hand, heavy as iron, rested on Lyn’s shoulder, pressing him toward the ground.

“How fares your dear mother?”

Lyn understood. He resisted the instinctive urge to turn back toward the executed woman, to study her face again. That was exactly what the Red Emperor wanted him to do. Fixing his vacant gaze on the third figure still moaning on the cross, Lyn thought: 'No, the Emperor is just trying to frighten me… If her hair had been as black as Ilithyia’s, I’d have noticed at once… and her build’s different, too. It couldn’t be her'.

Besides, common heretics weren’t accorded the "honor" of blinding and maiming. Those punishments were reserved for shifters.

Jesa had broken his own fingers and blinded himself to shut out the Other Side and his black twin, and thus achieved holiness. 

Lyn waited in silence for the Emperor to continue. And of course, he did.

“Madam Ilithyia’s trade is a perilous one — managing brothels. The Church frowns on such endeavors. Yet much is permitted to those loyal to me... though it’s still a dangerous business. Where tax collectors and moral watchdogs fail, rivals and the envious might succeed. I trust her security is strong?”     

"Are you threatening to kill Ilithyia?" Lyn asked, more for clarity than out of shock.  

Emperor Valerius' face twisted in a slight grimace of disgust, pitying, as though Lyn had committed some kind of social faux pas. Clearly, he was used to such blunders from his conversational partners and expected no better.

“We are not barbarians, to kill the innocent. However, should the courts uncover any sin in madam Ilithyia’s dealings… well, that’s another matter. Certain malicious tongues claim she prays to forbidden gods. But surely, that’s a vile slander.”

Silence followed. Both of them turned their gaze back to the row of crosses. The sun blazed relentlessly, casting the world in a yellow haze, like sizzling oil in a pan.

“I see you’ve done your research,” Lyn finally said, relieved to find his voice steady. “But not thoroughly enough. Ilithyia isn’t even my real mother. We were never close. I don’t care about her or her whores.” 

He managed a smile, lifting his gaze to meet the Emperor Valerius’s pallid, greenish eyes — like a frozen, mossy swamp. They scrutinized Lyn’s face for any sign of bluffing but found none.

“I’m not someone who wastes worry on others, Your Majesty,” Lyn continued. “Friends and family have never been a luxury of mine. If you think of anyone else you can threaten me with, do let me know. I’d be pleasantly surprised. And one more thing…”

Lyn was certain the Red Emperor hadn’t come here alone. Somewhere — probably from the balcony over there, which he tried very hard not to look toward — archers or crossbowmen were watching his every move. Every step he took was shadowed by the slow adjustment of an arrowhead, waiting for the signal to strike.

“Perhaps you’re wondering,” Lyn said in a deliberately dull voice, “whether the Archon of This World can kill a mere mortal, not a shifter. Whether God would allow it. So far, only one person has dared to test that. My father. My real father, before I was taken in by Ilithyia. And now he’s dead. Your spies must have dug that up too, I assume.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned away, practically feeling the Emperor’s fingers twitch behind him, poised between hesitation and the signal for death.

He took a few steps. Ten. Nothing happened.

Mounting Silverback, he felt the weight of menace pressing over the square. But no arrow pierced his back.

Lyn tugged the reins and pulled his flight helmet down over his face. Silverback spiraled upward, leaving the square and its three crosses far below. The sky opened up before Lyn — vast, eternal, incomprehensible.

Then came a rumbling sound — not the whistle of an arrow but the heavy thrum of a weapon like a ballista. Silverback jolted violently. The world spun upside down as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Lyn jolted awake, gasping for air like a fish out of water. His heart pounded in his chest. For a moment, he just sat on the edge of the bed, trying to calm his trembling hands and shake off the remnants of sleep. He listened to the sounds filtering in from the street: the clatter of hooves, the rumble of wagons, and the creak of wooden buckets. Mostly, though, it was shouting and swearing —a cacophony of voices. At one end of the street, two barkers were screaming over each other, trying to lure travelers to their respective inns while slandering each other's establishments. At the other end, fragments of a heated argument about the price of a horse carried through the air.

Morning in the Eternal City was never good.

His head was pounding so much he could hang himself. (To be fair, Lyn had tried once, but the beams in the quarters of the Archon of This World had turned out to be disappointingly flimsy.) The headache was no surprise, considering how much he'd drunk the night before.

A luxurious, soft carpet covered the floor beside the bed, though Lyn paid no attention to it — or to the massive stain that now ruined it. What interested him was the bottle lying at the center of the stain. Without bothering to rise, he groped for it, shook it, and heard the hopeful slosh of liquid inside. He took a swig. The headache didn’t abate, but a soothing warmth spread through his body, dulling the edge of his misery. That was better.

Lyn buried his face back into the pillow, hoping he might at least doze until noon. Without dreams.

But a familiar voice — a beggar who liked to play the holy fool — began to wail in the street below. Accompanying this odd serenade was the measured scolding of a woman chastising her husband over his recent purchase of a scribe-slave who, as she claimed, was not only stupid but illiterate to boot.

So much for sleep.

Lyn swung his legs off the bed and stepped onto the heap of discarded clothing strewn across the floor. He pulled on the first thing he found, then glanced at himself in the full-length bronze mirror. The figure staring back at him was rumpled and pathetic — but at least wearing a finely embroidered dressing gown. It could be worse. It had been worse.

He stepped onto the balcony, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Below him spread the Great City, the Megalo Polis — an intricate tapestry of rooftops and homes, colonnades and arches, all framed by fruit orchards and silver poplars. In the sharp, near-noon shadows, the whitewash of the buildings appeared almost blue. At the city’s zenith, the massive golden dome of the Grand Temple gleamed like fire. Beyond the rooftops, the silhouette of the aqueduct rose faintly through the haze. Farther still, past the splendor of palaces and the grime of slums, beyond the teeming streets and bustling forums, the sea sparkled. Hundreds of white sails dotted its surface.

The sea was the only thing Lyn had yet to hate about this city. He inhaled deeply, tasting the salt and iodine on the breeze.

A street boy spotted him and shouted: 

"Look! It's the Archon himself!"   

Most of the people on the street craned their necks to look up. Some crossed themselves.  

"The god-appointed one… The holy youth… Bless us with a sermon, Most Revered!"

Lyn leaned on the railing and gazed down at the human anthill below. It looked just as unimpressive as his reflection had moments ago. 

"A sermon, our lord Archon of This World! A ser-mon!"

"God is dead," Lyn confidentially told the listeners, not bothering to adjust the dressing gown that had slipped off one shoulder. "He realized He was useless and decided to end it all. And if He didn’t, then He’s sick of us. If anyone tells you God loves you, spit in their face. No one loves anyone for nothing. Think about it, it's crazy to love scum like us."

"Wise words, Most Revered! God’s love must be earned! But I pray devoutly and give to the Church!" someone in the crowd shouted.

"Poor soul, you don’t get it. Prayers are just the mutterings of old fools, and your offerings might as well go into a shit pit. You think you’ve earned God’s love? Have you ever seen your face? Even your mother doesn’t love you."

With that, Lyn waved goodbye and retreated from the balcony. The crowd below erupted in animated discussion. Most agreed that the Archon’s aphorisms were profound, calling for inner reflection and rejection of blind dogma. A few, however, muttered disapprovingly: "Well, this is outrageous," "Just listen to that," and "The end times must be near."

An old woman’s quavering voice piped up with apparent approval:
"He’s just young — likes to stir things up."

Lyn collapsed onto the bed. His head still pounded, the pain pulsing rhythmically like a dull hammer against the back of his skull.

A knock came at the door, perfectly in sync with the pounding in his head. Lyn ignored it, but the visitor entered without waiting for an invitation, as he always did. It was, of course, Antipater, the elderly steward of the Archon’s household.

"Honestly, I don’t understand what you hope to achieve, aside from one day being torn apart by a furious mob," he said dryly by way of greeting.

"They don’t even listen to what I say," Lyn replied with a dismissive wave. "It’s enough for them to hear themselves. Or the voices in their heads."

The old man sniffed the air.

"You’ve been drinking. It’s barely eleven in the morning…"

"Exactly. Do you have anything meaningful to say?"

"Are you going to have breakfast?"

"Yes," Lyn said with sudden enthusiasm. "I’ll have chicken stuffed with almonds."

It was one of the most elaborate and time-consuming dishes he knew, but to his surprise, Antipater didn’t grumble. Instead, he examined Lyn from head to toe. Judging by his expression, the sight did not inspire delight. Then again, Antipater always looked like that.

"Very well, chicken with almonds." Antipater looked around the cluttered bedroom with the same disapproving glance as before at Lyn himself. "And I’ll have someone clean this room. Though we’ll likely have to pay double…"

It wasn't a question, so Lyn didn’t bother responding. The old man added: 

"After breakfast, dress properly. They’ll be here to collect you. The Council wants to see you."

"I take it no one cares whether I want to see the Council?" Lyn asked, feeling the already not very warm atmosphere of the conversation drop a few more degrees.

"I doubt you’d want them to drag you there by force. Don’t disgrace yourself further," Antipater replied sternly before leaving.  

***