The Deprivation Years

“I will not break.”

The priest sat chained to the wooden chair, a column of dusty white light descending upon his head and casting the rest of the room into blinding darkness. Sweat dripped down his temples and he clutched the edge of his seat.

“We are not trying to break you,” the disembodied voice said, “We just want to know where you came from.”

The priest twitched with a small, useless breath of fear. “Where I come from matters not, only what I believe.”

“And you came to impart your beliefs to us?”

Eyes closed, with an expression close to crying, the priest nodded emphatically.

“Your diocese would send you, a common priest, into these dangerous lands simply to evangelize us.” The voice was flat. “You sense no other motive.”

“I have but one purpose, to illuminate your ignorance and point you toward the creator,” the priest sobbed, head hanging.

A sigh of resignation echoed through the chamber. “Dark magic is not ignorance. Your leaders sent you to become one of us.”

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