The cold bite of the wind greeted Cal as he stepped away from the monastery's stone walls, his breath a visible mist in the air. The blizzard outside howled, a furious wail that seemed to echo his thoughts, swirling the snow into a dense wall of white. Each gust of wind felt like a slap, stinging against his skin, but it didn't bother him. It was almost fitting—the world outside matching the cold, dark emptiness he felt inside.
His boots crunched against the thick layer of snow that covered the monastery's grounds, the only sound the rhythm of his steps, heavy and determined. He hadn't spoken a word since Brewyn had sent him on the mission, nor did he feel the need to. What was there to say? Words were meaningless now, fragments of a life that felt as distant as the sun hidden behind the snowstorm.
The weight of the ring on his finger was a constant reminder, its pulse faint but undeniable—a cruel throb that matched the beating of his own heart. The power it granted, the terrifying power, was now a part of him, entwined in his every thought, in the very marrow of his bones. But what was he to do with it? He hadn't asked for this burden, yet it was his to carry.
His fingers brushed lightly against the smooth surface of the ring, a strange, almost comforting warmth flowing through him, contrasting the icy chill of the blizzard. He clenched his fist, willing himself not to think about it. Later, he told himself. You'll have time to understand later.
His thoughts drifted back to the conversation with Brewyn, the cryptic words, the veiled threats. Manpower. Cal's mind recoiled at the term. It had been said so casually, so coldly, that it felt like a curse on the air itself. The thought of those other boys—those who were nothing more than tools in the Church's eyes—sickened him. He had always known that something was wrong with the monastery, but now the veil had been torn away, revealing the truth. And the truth was darker than anything he could have imagined.
The outside world, a world he had never seen, now loomed before him, an unknown land of power, politics, and corruption. He had heard whispers of it over the years, stories told by the few who dared to speak of it. Cities, crowded with people living in tightly packed homes, their lives a blur of struggle and survival. But beyond the city walls, beyond the borders of the kingdom... there was only darkness. Or so he had been led to believe.
A low growl of thunder rumbled in the distance, a reminder of the storm's fury. The blizzard was relentless, but Cal felt its chill only in passing. His mind was too preoccupied with the impending mission, with what Brewyn had said. A wedding. Two noble families. A Lord who was a patron of the Church. It sounded almost too mundane, too simple for the weight of what it was meant to signify. But Cal knew better than to believe in surface appearances. Everything in the world outside the monastery had layers, masks, facades. And this wedding would be no different.
With every step, the distance between him and the monastery grew, the heavy doors that had once held him in like a cage now a distant memory. His body moved automatically, each step carrying him closer to the unknown. The storm continued to howl, as if it, too, sensed the turning of a page in his life.
As he neared the stables, the cold wind cut through his cloak, forcing him to pull it tighter around his shoulders. The low, rumbling noise of hooves and the scent of hay filled the air, signaling that he was close. The stables were a welcome respite from the freezing winds, a familiar place, yet it now felt strangely foreign to him. The warmth of the barn was a brief comfort, but it didn't quell the gnawing unease in his gut.
He reached for the door, the heavy wood creaking as he pushed it open. The warmth inside was almost suffocating after the harsh cold of the storm. The faint smell of horses and straw, the soft clink of harnesses and saddles, and the occasional shuffle of hooves made the place feel alive, though he couldn't shake the feeling that the life here, like the world outside, was far more complicated than it seemed.
Cal took a moment, standing in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the familiar interior of the stables, before he stepped inside, his footsteps muffled by the straw-covered floor. The horses, calm but alert, shifted in their stalls, sensing his presence. His eyes landed on the stablehands, their movements quiet and purposeful, but they didn't acknowledge him. There was nothing new in this scene, yet everything felt different. The world was shifting around him, and he, too, was shifting with it.
As he walked deeper into the stables, he felt the weight of the mission pressing down on him again. His hand instinctively moved to the ring, its pulse stronger now. What would happen when he left the monastery? What would he face in the world outside? The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he refused to let it show. Brewyn had given him a task, a chance. And if there was one thing he had learned, it was that the world didn't care whether he was ready or not.
The inquisitors would be here soon. The thought of them stirred a deep sense of apprehension within him. He had seen their cold efficiency in action, and though they were loyal to Brewyn, they were not ones to be underestimated. They would be his guides in this new world, whether he liked it or not.
For now, all he could do was wait. The storm outside raged on, but inside the stables, a strange stillness settled over him. He was about to step into a world of politics, power, and deception. And for the first time, Cal felt the weight of his own fate bearing down on him.
Şunu dedin:
the inquisators come, one of them is the man who came to him the night he obtained the ring, one of them is new, in his 30s, with a tall stracture, hoarse beard, short, nicely trimmed hair. both of them wear something different when he saw inqisators in the monastery, they wear plate armor, not too exravagant, but in good shape, the armors are featuring an eye, crossed with a blade, the men come closer to him, and stop right beside the two strong warhorses---- stop here
ChatGPT:
The quiet clatter of hooves echoed through the stables, the sound growing steadily as the inquisitors approached. Cal's eyes flicked toward the entrance, his heart picking up pace as he saw the two figures stepping into the warmth of the stables. The first man, the one who had visited him the night he had come into possession of the ring, strode forward with a quiet authority. His sharp features were unreadable, but there was a familiarity in his measured steps, his eyes scanning the surroundings as though always alert. He moved with a practiced ease, the weight of his presence commanding attention even without words.
The second man was a new face to Cal, though the aura he exuded was no less imposing. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a hoarse beard that looked as though it had been carefully cultivated, matching the short, neatly trimmed hair that framed his face. His features were strong, marked by the ruggedness of a man who had spent years in the harshest of conditions. There was a certain sharpness in his gaze, a look that spoke of experience and confidence. The lines of his jaw were set in a permanent, hardened expression, as if he carried the weight of burdens no one else could understand.
Both men were dressed differently from the inquisitors Cal had seen within the monastery's walls. Their armor was a stark contrast to the dark, somber robes he had grown accustomed to. Polished plate armor, though not overly extravagant, gleamed under the stable's dim light. The plates fit them perfectly, worn with the grace of men who had trained their entire lives to move with such encumbrances. The most striking feature of their armor was the symbol emblazoned upon it: an eye, crossed with a blade. The image was bold, both ominous and commanding, a symbol that seemed to speak of hidden watchfulness and silent, lethal power.
The two inquisitors stopped just beside the two warhorses that were tied up, their powerful frames shifting slightly under the weight of the gear they carried. The horses, bred for strength and endurance, were stocky and impressive, their coats a deep, glossy black. They were perfect for the task ahead—silent, capable of carrying their riders through the worst conditions with ease. The inquisitors stood still for a moment, their attention on Cal, as if waiting for him to acknowledge their arrival.
The air between them felt charged with a new energy, something unspoken but understood. Cal took a slow, steadying breath, his body stiffening instinctively. The mission, the unknowns, the weight of the ring—it was all coming to a head. And now, these two inquisitors were here, ready to lead him out of the sanctuary of the monastery and into a world he knew nothing about.
He could feel the eyes of the men on him, their presence both unnerving and strangely reassuring. The familiar inquisitor—his name was Rhenar—looked at him with a brief nod, the same unreadable expression on his face as always. But it was the new inquisitor who seemed to study him more intently, his gaze lingering on Cal for just a moment longer, as if assessing him, sizing him up.
Cal shifted uncomfortably under the mans gaze, feeling small and almost childlike compared to the towering inquisitor. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak despite the knot of unease tightening in his stomach. His voice came out quieter than he intended, but he didn't mind—it was a reflection of how he felt.
"What's your name?" he asked timidly, his eyes flicking up briefly to meet the tall figure.
The tall man's sharp eyes never wavered as he looked down at Cal. There was no warmth in his voice, no sign of any recognition or affection, just a cold, detached answer.
"Galar," the inquisitor said, his tone flat, as though speaking were little more than a formality.
Galar took a moment to look Cal over, his gaze steady, almost like he was sizing him up. He didn't seem to care for the fact that Cal's posture made him appear even smaller, almost like a child standing in front of a giant. There was no sense of superiority in Galar's expression, just an impassive, calculating look.
With a slight pause, Galar's lips parted once more, his words like a low rumble that only added to the growing weight of the moment. "And what's yours? I forgot to ask Brewyn."
Cal hesitated before answering, feeling the weight of the question like a burden. The inquisitor's gaze remained on him, the silence stretching between them as though Galar was expecting more than just a name. As if the answer, or perhaps the way it was given, held some kind of weight.
"My name is Cal," he answered, voice steadier now as he looked up, meeting Galar's eyes with the faintest touch of resolve.
Galar's expression shifted slightly, a faint flicker of something almost like disdain crossing his features as he regarded Cal. The inquisitor's gaze lingered on the young man a moment longer, before he spoke again, his tone colder than before.
"Cal?" Galar repeated, as if the name itself left a bitter taste in his mouth. "A peasant's name. It's not appropriate for the mission."
Cal blinked in surprise, his brow furrowing slightly. He hadn't expected that response, but there was something in Galar's eyes that suggested it wasn't just about names—it was about something deeper, something more fitting for the world outside.
Galar straightened, his posture as rigid as ever, his voice taking on a finality that left little room for argument. "You'll be Callan now. In the outside world, Callan is a better fit. It carries more weight." His eyes remained cold, no softness to soften the statement. It was just a fact, a necessary change.
Cal stood still, the new name settling into his mind. Callan. It felt foreign, but not unpleasant. There was something about it that felt… stronger, more suited to who he was about to become. A small part of him felt a bit of pride stir at the thought. Callan was a name that belonged to someone who had purpose, someone with a future.
A soft breath escaped his lips, and he gave a small, almost bashful nod, his voice quieter than before but filled with a quiet, unexpected gratitude. "Callan," he repeated, testing the name. "It's an honor."
Galar didn't acknowledge the response, his eyes already moving past Cal to the two warhorses. But for a brief moment, there was a hint of something in his gaze—a flicker that suggested even this small change hadn't gone unnoticed by the inquisitor.
"Good," Galar said flatly, the word carrying no warmth, only the cold certainty of someone who expected obedience. "Now, let's get moving."
And with that, the moment was over, the weight of the name now settled in Cal—no, Callan's—chest as he prepared to face whatever was next.