Path of the Forsaken Sigil

Chapter 38

"You are right," Bruce said. He pushed himself up, standing on his shaky legs. "We can't stay here."

"I must hide," the Seraph said. The giant angel looked at its own body. "I am too big. A ten-foot angel walking in the slums will bring the Inquisitors straight to us in a minute. My magic is too low to fight them again. I must rest."

"How will you hide?" Bruce asked. 

"I will merge with your shadow," the Seraph explained. "I will sleep inside the darkness cast by your feet. I will be able to speak to your mind, but I will not be able to come out and fight for you. You must protect yourself, Master."

Bruce nodded. "Do it."

The Seraph bowed its head. The giant creature lost its solid shape, turning into a cloud of thick black smoke. The smoke swirled downward, sinking into the puddle of muddy water right where Bruce's shadow was cast by the streetlights. The shadow grew a little darker, and then everything was still. 

“I am with you, Master,” the Seraph’s voice echoed directly inside Bruce’s brain. 

Bruce was alone in the alley. He looked down at his clothes. His shirt was burned away. His pants were torn and covered in blood and mud. His right arm was a glowing, black and red mess. Anyone who looked at him would know he was the person the bells were ringing for. 

He needed a disguise. 

Bruce walked to the end of the alley. He saw a clothesline hanging between two broken windows. There was an old, dirty brown cloak hanging on the line. Bruce reached up with his left hand and pulled the cloak down. He wrapped it tightly around his shoulders. He pulled the large hood up over his head, hiding his face and the bright silver fire in his eyes. He hid his ruined right arm safely under the thick fabric. 

He stepped out of the alley and onto the main street of the Lower Slums. 

The street was in utter chaos. 

The Lower Slums of Oakhaven were home to the poorest, most desperate people in the kingdom. There were no paved roads here, only deep, slippery mud. The buildings were made of cheap wood and rusted metal. Flickering magical signs hung above cheap taverns and dirty medicine shops. 

Right now, the people were panicking. 

The golden bells continued to ring loudly in the sky. 

Hundreds of commoners were running through the rain. Mothers were grabbing their crying children and pulling them inside their broken houses. Shop owners were slamming their wooden doors shut and locking them with heavy iron chains. 

"The Purge! The Purge is coming!" an old man screamed, running past Bruce with a terrified look on his face. "Hide your magic! Hide your daughters! The golden butchers are here!"

Bruce kept his head down and walked slowly through the crowd. 

He quickly learned that the people of the Lower Slums did not see the Inquisitors as holy heroes. To the rich nobles in the Inner City, the Inquisitors were protectors. But to the poor people down here, the Inquisitors were monsters. During a "Purge," the golden knights would kick down doors, burn houses, and drag away anyone they suspected of using dark magic or hiding secrets. 

No one asked questions during a Purge. They just hid and prayed they would survive the night. 

Bruce walked for ten minutes. The cold rain soaked through his brown cloak, making him shiver violently. His vision started to blur again. His cracked mana core was hurting worse than before. It felt like an empty stomach, but a thousand times more painful. It was starving for magic. 

“You must feed, Master,” the Seraph’s voice whispered in his mind. “If you do not consume mana within the hour, your core will collapse.”

"I know," Bruce whispered back, his teeth chattering from the cold. "But where do I find magic down here? Everyone is hiding."

He turned a corner, leaving the crowded main street and walking down a narrower, darker side street. He hoped to find a quiet place to sit down and rest his legs for just a minute. 

Suddenly, Bruce heard a noise. 

It was the sound of a struggle. He heard a heavy thud, followed by a sharp cry of pain. 

Bruce stopped. He pressed his back against the dirty brick wall and peeked around the corner into a small, dead-end alley. 

Three men were standing in the alley. They were local thugs, members of a street gang. They wore dirty leather armor covered in mud. They had shaved heads and ugly tattoos on their faces. They were taking advantage of the chaos and the Purge to rob people who were trying to run away. 

The thugs had cornered someone against a wooden fence. 

It was a young girl, maybe sixteen years old. She had short, messy brown hair and wore a ragged gray coat. She was clutching a small, heavy leather bag tightly to her chest. Her lip was bleeding. One of the thugs had just punched her.