Desecration of a saint

The darkness faded, and my vision sharpened far faster than I expected. Whatever healing they had done to me worked well enough to make the adjustment almost seamless. As the world around me came into focus, I realized I was somewhere different—nicer than I would have expected for someone of my stature. The room was small, reminiscent of the slave bunks I had known, but with a sense of care in its simplicity that those places never had. The walls were smooth stone, clean and unmarred by grime.

The cot beneath me was narrow but sturdy, covered with a thick wool blanket that felt coarse against my skin but warm. It was far better than the tattered rags I had grown accustomed to. The air carried the faint scent of dried herbs, mingling with the sharp tang of something sharp that slightly singed at my nose.

I tilted my head back to examine the ceiling. It was made of dark hardwood, its surface carved with intricate patterns—beasts and creatures locked in ferocious battles. Four-legged and two-legged shapes clashed with serpentine forms that twisted and flowed, their movements translated in the wood. The carvings drew me in, compelling me to follow their stories with my eyes as though watching a play performed above me.

Lowering my gaze from the carvings, I took in the smaller details around me: the neatly folded linen at the foot of my cot, the soft glow of an oil lamp on a nearby table. Its flickering light illuminated a figure standing just within its reach, their face partially obscured by shadow but unmistakably watching me.

As the light shifted, I recognized him. His face was gaunt, as though sleep had long since fought him. Light blue eyes glinted sharply, like a scalpel poised to cut. His greying, receding hair couldn't quite hide the stubborn streaks of gold that still clung to it. His cheekbones, already sharp the last time I had seen him, looked even more pronounced now, the flickering shadows exaggerating their edges.

The faint smell of barley gruel lingered on his coat, a scent I knew all too well. Yet, despite his haggard appearance, his expression seemed... lighter. He wasn't scowling this time, and for Lord Dutchmund, as far as I could tell that was almost considered a good mood.

He was close, leaning in slightly as if studying my reaction. His piercing blue eyes scanned my face, his expression sharp and calculating.

"Edric," he said, his voice measured, "do you notice anything? Any dark patches or blurring of the vision?"

His words drew my attention inward, forcing me to focus on my sight. I searched for any abnormalities, any flaws, but found none.

"No, Lord," I replied, keeping my tone respectful. "My vision is fine. Actually… it's better than fine. I can see everything clearer than before. I used to have trouble with objects close to my eyes—they were always blurry—but now everything is perfectly sharp."

"Good. Now get up. I need to check if there are any anomalies with the rest of you."

I found myself getting up easily, which felt strange. How was it that I felt so light, every muscle moving exactly as I wanted? It had never been like this before—before they did whatever it was they had done to my body. A slight shiver ran through me as the memory of that experience surfaced.

I followed Lord Dutchmund's instructions, performing basic movements while he scribbled notes into his book. I wished I could understand what he was recording, but I had never been taught to read or write. The shapes on the page were as much a mystery to me as the changes in my body.

After some time, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, their sound reverberating through the ward. A moment later, the loud thumping of heavy boots echoed across the stone floor, growing louder with each step.

Eventually, a massive gut appeared in the doorway, followed by the man it was attached to. His heavy frame seemed dominated by fat, but I doubted that was entirely true—no one could move with that much weight and not possess some underlying strength. His head was completely bald, gleaming as though it had been waxed, much like I used to do to my old master's boots.

His skin was dark, a rich hue similar to the wood around me, and adorned with gleaming gold. Earrings hung from his ears, and a heavy necklace rested against his chest. His robe was smooth and elegant, the kind of fabric I imagined was made for royalty. Despite his lavish appearance, it was his smile that struck me the most—cold and calculating, far more chilling than Lord Dutchmund's habitual scowl.

His mouth stretched wide—almost too wide for his face—as he spoke, his tone dripping with exaggerated cheer.

"My, my, look who's finally awake. Did you sleep well? Heal well? I hope so. We have a busy day ahead of us."

I bowed my head low, keeping my voice steady.

"Lord Thorne!"

Unlike the director, who had been caring for me in his own gruff way, I sensed that Lord Thorne would care deeply about being addressed properly. There was something about him—his presence, the way he carried himself—that reminded me of my old master. The same sharp gaze, the same air of expectation that demanded respect.

"Raise your head, boy. Or should I call you Edric, as that was the name given to you... Ah, to be granted a name by the king while only being a slave. You must be a truly lucky boy, you know. It's not that I'm jealous—just stating the obvious."

His hand larger than my head waved for me to follow.

"Come now, Edric. We need to take you to your new residence, and I'll introduce you to your instructor. I'll have you know, I picked only the best for you. You'll be a champion—or dead—in no time... Haha, I'm only joking."

I moved to follow him, sparing a glance at Lord Dutchmund. He seemed completely disinterested in me and the conversation, his focus fixed on whatever notes or thoughts consumed him.