AURELİA: The Sealed Soul

CHAPTER 2: SCORCHED EARTH, STAINLESS SOUL

The sun hung in the sky not like a gleaming golden medallion, but like a scorching coal, burning everything in its path. Old Priest Jeron, having set out on the road at the command of High Priest Malakai, struggled to breathe beneath his thick, dust-laden robes. For days, he had traveled the backroads of the kingdom. As he distanced himself from the arrogant walls of the capital, he had been struck like a slap in the face by the true, savage face of the drought. The earth was cracked so deeply that the very ground seemed to be screaming silently in thirst.
The villages he passed along the way were no different from graveyards. People stared at one another with hatred and suspicion by the dried-up wells, brawling over a handful of rotting wheat. The squares, once joyous with the sounds of children, now echoed only with the snarls of dogs whose ribs showed through their skin from hunger, and the moans of the elderly on their deathbeds. Leaning on his staff, Jeron climbed the steep, rocky mountain path and rattled his canteen. It was empty. His lips were split from thirst, his throat scorched like an oven.
"My Gods," he murmured in a trembling voice. "Send us a sign. If we do not find that pure soul, this kingdom will consume itself."
Just then, at the highest peak where the sun beat down with its greatest intensity, his mind clouded. His knees gave way, and his wooden staff struck the rocks and fell with a clatter. Before losing consciousness, Jeron tried to steady himself upon the dry leaves, but failed. As the world spun rapidly around him, he surrendered himself to the merciless heat at the edge of the forest—and to death.
Elin, tying her small wooden canteen to her waist—filled with the last few drops of clean water she had gathered from the drying bed of the mountain spring—could feel the ache tightening in her chest. Her father’s breath at home grew heavier by the day, and hope had completely vanished from the village. Yet, that selfless compassion within her would not allow her footsteps to falter. As she walked down the mountain path toward the village, she noticed a strange dark shape among the bushes.
Fearlessly, with delicate steps, she approached. Lying in the dirt, his robes torn, was an old man. Had it been one of the villagers, they would likely have turned and fled at the sight of a stranger; in these times, a stranger meant danger, hunger, and theft. But Elin was not that kind of child.
Without hesitation, she knelt beside him. She placed her small, cool hands upon the priest’s forehead, which was scorched by the heat. When Jeron opened his eyes slightly at the miraculous coolness he felt, he did not see a mere human, but a silhouette descended from the heavens. Elin untied the canteen from her waist. This water was the most precious treasure in the kingdom, which she had searched for hours to find for her father. Yet, she could not turn a blind eye to the life fading before her. She opened the cork and held it gently to the old man’s parched lips.
Jeron felt as though he were returning to life with every drop of water that trickled down his throat. With her small hands, Elin helped the priest sit up. When the priest looked at the young girl who had aided him, his heart nearly stopped.
The girl’s lips were sealed; she did not utter a single word, but her eyes... her eyes were the color of the clear, tranquil oceans and the pure sky that the entire kingdom had forgotten. In that deep, serene gaze, there was neither the greed of this world nor the savage selfishness brought by hunger. When Jeron held the girl’s small hands, he felt that pure, stainless energy radiating from her fingertips into his soul. The "stainless sacrifice" sought for hundreds of years in the holy texts, the one to appease the Gods' wrath, stood right before him.
"You..." said Jeron, his voice trembling. "You are the very sky itself."
Elin responded to his words only with a faint, innocent smile. Assuring herself that the man was well, she took her empty canteen and walked away silently down the path toward her village. She neither looked back nor realized that her fate had been irrevocably sealed from that moment on. The old priest, however, could not take his eyes off the little girl. He had found the sacrifice he sought, but for the first time, the shred of humanity within him ached at the thought of destroying such purity. Still, the kingdom had to be saved. Leaning on his staff, he stood up to send word to High Priest Malakai.
In the grand marble hall of the capital’s palace, a different kind of storm was brewing. King Varian was watching the square below from the high balcony of the throne room. In the square, the palace guards were distributing soup and bread to the people by the King’s order. Varian was trying to win their loyalty by offering these provisions, forcibly seized from the nobles' granaries. As the people in the streets shouted, "Long live King Varian!", Varian watched them with a cold, arrogant smile on his lips.
"You feed them, but this will only last a few weeks, cousin," said the irritating, noble voice rising from behind him.
When Varian turned, he saw his cousin Aethelgard leaning against one of the pillars, looking at him while swirling the golden goblet in his hand. Behind Aethelgard stood the most powerful dukes and counts of the Council. The palace aristocracy was lined up like vultures, waiting for Varian to trip at any moment.
"They are fed thanks to me, Aethelgard," Varian said, descending the steps with firm strides. "The wheat you left to rot in your locked granaries is now fortifying the foundations of my throne. The people see who is feeding them."
Aethelgard took a sip from his goblet, not even bothering to hide the wicked gleam in his eyes. "People forget quickly, Varian. Tomorrow, when the last sack in the granaries is empty and not a single drop of rain falls from the sky, those wretches you trust so much will be the first to tear down the palace gates. The council of nobles is in agreement that the son of a murderer and a concubine is leading us to ruin. Your blood is dirty, Varian. And this land does not accept dirty blood."
Varian clenched his fists beneath his armor so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, struggling to keep from grabbing Aethelgard by the collar. His inferiority complex flared up into a fire in his chest once more. Not having been born in the palace, having emerged from the womb of a concubine—it was his greatest curse, and Aethelgard threw it in his face at every opportunity.
"I will have those who doubt my blood swinging in this square," Varian hissed, keeping his voice at a tone only Aethelgard could hear. "Do not forget how we took your father’s throne, cousin. I will tear these halls down with your blood if I have to. Now, get out of my sight!"
As Aethelgard and the nobles departed the hall with those masks of arrogance on their faces, Varian walked toward his throne and collapsed into it as if into a void. He was alone. The kingdom was slipping through his fingers. Just then, the great doors of the hall were flung wide open. High Priest Malakai entered, covered in dust, but with a fanatical belief of triumph in his eyes.
"My King," said Malakai, not hiding the excitement in his voice. "My priests have returned. The sacred sacrifice that will open the gates of the sky and appease the wrath of the Gods has been found. In a forgotten village by the sea... a young girl with not a single stain upon her soul."
Varian gripped the armrests of the throne. The people’s support could end at any moment; the nobles were digging his grave. To survive, to bring those silk-cloaked aristocrats to their knees, he needed this religious theater. He buried the last remaining shred of humanity within him into the darkness.
"Begin the preparations," Varian said, with a ruthless determination in his eyes. "Bring that child to the palace."