"Half-blind, you say? Can't even make out objects ten meters distant?" The Cardinal Sin Bishop's voice was deceptively mild, yet his words landed like shards of glass.
"Three years. He's been under our roof for three whole years, and none of you noticed something so… fundamental? Perhaps you're all afflicted with a touch of blindness yourselves." The Bishop heaved himself up and poured Silas a glass of water. His corpulent, greasy face was a crush of features. His voice, like warm tallow sliding over cold stone, continued, "His lack of memory is one thing; he's proven a quick study, a bright lad." He circled their chairs slowly, his gaze appraising, before pinching No. 7's cheek with a large, calloused, and decidedly ungentle hand.
"But this, Silas—this requires an explanation. Why have we lavished resources for two years cultivating what turns out to be… damaged goods?"
Silas's normally robust frame seemed to tilt forward, like a wall on the verge of collapse, his usually ramrod-straight back now faintly stooped. "No. 7's foundations were… lacking upon arrival, Your Eminence. I tutored him personally, step by step. He hasn't attended general instruction in the main hall these past years." He parsed his words with visible effort, as if forcing them from his lips. "His Tidal Force and combat drills were rudimentary, never testing such distances." Silas offered no further defense; the futility was palpable.
"And you, No. 7? Why this silence?" The Cardinal Sin Bishop swiveled and sank into his crimson velvet throne, his bulk threatening to subsume the chair entirely. A trinity of chins cascaded onto his gold-embroidered collar.
"I… I didn't know. I assumed everyone saw as I did," No. 7 stammered, teeth chattering, yet still clinging to his defense.
"So, you profess no fault?" The Bishop's pudgy finger jabbed first at No. 7, then at Silas. "And naturally, you bear no blame either." He then gestured to himself, mouth agape in an exaggerated 'O'. "Then surely, the fault must lie with *me*?"
Silas's head snapped up, his customary composure fracturing. "N-no, of course not, Your Eminence! The failing was mine…"
The Bishop, eyes closed, leaned back, silencing him with an impatient wave.
"These children… these scions of the Golden Age, untainted souls bearing the sacred blood of our ancestors. They were destined to be glorious paladins, astride magnificent Akhal-Teke steeds from Monger, parading down the capital's grand avenue, objects of adoration for legions!" He waved a languid hand through the air, a conductor leading an unseen orchestra. "Holy maidens would serenade them, the Most Holy Sanctum's finest musicians would weave symphonies. And I, Your Eminence, alongside the Pope himself, would witness this triumph from the Sanctum's apex. Imagine the glory!"
"But!" He lurched forward, eyes blazing, finger a sharpened dagger aimed at No. 7.
"This one—this *defective*, this half-blind cur who can barely discern the path before him—he loses his way! His witless steed bolts from the procession! The honor guard's pikes gash its flank, and the two-meter-tall warhorse, maddened, ploughs into the adoring throngs, trampling them underfoot! And in that instant, the anti-Church vermin, their self-important scribes, will gleefully scratch down three damning pronouncements:"
"'Bloodline of the Golden Age—UTTERLY WORTHLESS!'"
"'Church Hierarchy—INCOMPETENT AND BLIND!'"
"'The Corpulent Bishop—A BUFFOON!'"
"Is *that* the spectacle you envision, hmm?" A sneer stretched his lips into a grotesque gash.
"I truly didn't know… I never wanted…" No. 7, on the precipice of tears, his voice a mere mosquito's whine.
"Enough! Judgment shall be rendered. No. 7: for your own blindness, and for blinding us in turn—that is your first transgression!" The Bishop wagged a sausage-like finger in No. 7's face.
"For squandering three years of the Church's precious resources, for diminishing its sacred majesty—your second transgression!"
"And your third: as a descendant of the Golden Age, to be afflicted thus, half-blind—you have *defiled* your very bloodline!"
"D-descendant? I… I don't understand." No. 7's mind was a bewildered fog. "I've always been loyal! If I cannot be a knight, I can serve in other ways…"
"Loyal, you say?" The fleshy face split into an even wider, more malevolent grin. "Then who was it, pray tell, who proclaimed that the angels of the great god Jupiter are all… *fried in a cauldron of oil, golden brown on both sides*, hmm?"
No. 7's thoughts screeched to a halt. He'd only ever told No. 3 that. *How…?* The thought was still forming when a blur of motion—a fist—crashed into his face. No. 7 catapulted a meter back, a tower of books a man's height toppling in his wake. "Preposterous!" Silas snarled, fist still clenched, veins throbbing at his temples, teeth grinding with audible fury.
"Enough, enough," the Bishop dismissed with a flick of his wrist. "Confine him to the purification room. Silas, I have further words for you."
A strange warmth flooded No. 7's eyes, then…blackness. When he next awoke, it was to the chill darkness of the purification room at night.
***
Early the next morning.
A sliver of dawnlight, pale and thin, pierced the ventilation slit high in the purification room wall, etching a line upon the floor. No. 7's eyes flew open; he gasped, the previous day's grotesque tableau—the old woman's leering smile—still seared onto his retinas. *A dream?* he panted. The intruding sunlight stabbed at his eyes. He instinctively raised a hand to shield them—and froze.
Clarity.
He blinked, then rubbed his throbbing, swollen right cheek. The ache persisted, but his vision… it was like peering through freshly polished glass. The mottled bloodstains on the wall, the verdigris on the iron door's hinges, even the grime impacted beneath his own fingernails—every detail leaped out with breathtaking precision.
"..."
Memory fragments, sharp as icicles, lanced his mind: twig-thin fingers, a serpent coiled around a copper ring, the cloying scent of decayed incense as his eyes were covered. He bolted upright, the threadbare blanket slithering to the floor, dislodging a puff of musty dust.
*What happened? How is this possible? Is this how others see the world?* No. 7 waved a hand through the sunbeam, watching the dust motes dance, then scrutinized his surroundings with an almost feral intensity. He could feel it—not just ten meters, but a hundred—he could see it all, with an almost painful lucidity.
*That old woman… did she heal my eyes?* Replaying the memory, her smile now seemed beatific, the crinkles around her eyes radiant, her white hair like spun silver, ethereal and sacred. *A divine intervention? I must tell Silas at once!*
A moment's elation, then hesitation. Something was… amiss. That crone bore no resemblance to any figure in Jupiter's sacred hymns. Her attire was alien to this place. Her features, unlike the pronounced highland traits of Jupiter or Silas, mirrored his own, and No. 8's…
*No. I can't tell them.* They would conjure some excuse—a heretical deity, a corrupting influence. The repercussions would be far graver.
As he wrestled with this, a furtive rustling emanated from beyond the door.
"No. 7? You still breathing in there?" No. 6's hushed tones, tight with worry, seeped under the door.
A torrent of joy surged through No. 7. "Alive and well!" he called back.
A hunk of black bread, wrapped in a grimy rag, was shoved through the gap. No. 3's labored breathing rasped against the door panel. "Eat. Patrol just passed."
He scrambled to the door, knees thudding on the cold stone. "A favor! Find Silas! Tell him… tell him my eyes were just strained yesterday from training! Tell him I was exhausted! Quickly!"
A scuffling sound from outside. No. 3's hulking shadow shifted. "What? For real? Your eyes… they're actually okay?" No. 6's breath caught. Without a word, she seized No. 3 by the collar and practically dragged him towards Silas's office. Their frantic footsteps faded down the corridor.
No. 7 slumped against the wall, fingertips idly tracing the gritty floor. The lozenge of light from the vent crept across the wall, a slow, watchful eye.
*Screech—*
The iron door grated open, unleashing a blinding torrent of light. Silas's towering silhouette filled the doorway, his expression a mystery in the harsh backlight. He crouched, meeting No. 7's gaze where he sat. His voice was devoid of inflection. "Your eyes are better. Explain."
No. 7 gesticulated wildly. "They are! I can see perfectly! I mean… I always could! Yesterday… I was just… incredibly tired." He struggled to his feet, chest puffed out. "I'm not defective. Not half-blind. You were wrong about me!"
An almost imperceptible, incredulous flicker crossed Silas's eyes. He stepped back from the door, producing a metal ID badge. "Read this."
"Instructor Silas van Craemann, Third Terra Laboratory, Sanctum."
Silas stared, his blue eyes slowly flooding with a potent cocktail of disbelief and dawning hope.
"Come. We see the Bishop." He strode forward, seized No. 7's arm, and propelled him forward, his pace so swift it stirred the air.
Yanked along by Silas, No. 7 practically flew down the long corridor. Sunlight lanced through high windows, striping the stone flags with bars of light. *Clear. Impossibly clear.* He saw the grime caked in every mortar line, each infinitesimal dust mote suspended in the sunbeams, even the ancient, spidery cracks beneath the flaking gilt of a distant mural.
Silas's palm was a landscape of calloused strength, his knuckles a constellation of tiny scars—the indelible brand of one who wrestled with the Tidal Force. His face, like basalt sculpted by a tempestuous sea, was all sharp angles, high cheekbones and shadowed hollows. His pale gold hair, threaded with the incense-grey of the Church, fell in three thick braids down his back.
It struck No. 7 then: he had never *truly* seen his mentor before.
Within the Cardinal Sin Bishop's office, crimson velvet drapes bled their sanguine hue into the light. The Bishop's monumental form was engulfed by his throne, rolls of fat threatening to spill over the armrests from beneath his gold-brocaded robes.
"Ah, our little 'half-blind' prodigal returns." The Bishop's voice, honey laced with razorblades. "I hear your eyes have experienced a… miraculous 'recovery'?"
No. 7 bowed his head, yet his eyes darted, absorbing. The Bishop's triple chin cascaded in well-maintained folds. A mole, stark on his left eyelid, sprouted a single, errant white hair. His fingernails, trimmed to an unnatural roundness, were tinged an unhealthy purple at the quick.
Silas stepped forward. "Your Eminence, No. 7's vision is indeed unimpaired. The lengthy recitation of hymns yesterday simply exhausted him."
"Is that so?" The Bishop leaned forward abruptly, his fleshy palm slamming onto the gilded tabletop. "Then peruse *this*!"
He withdrew a sheet of parchment from a drawer, unfurling it with a dramatic flourish. It was a dense tapestry of minuscule, fly-speck script, the insignia of the Pope's Hall emblazoned at its foot.
"The third line. Read it," the Bishop squinted, eyes glinting.
No. 7's focus snapped to the designated line. "'All those suffused by the Tide are hereby mandated to render unto the Church twenty-five thousand marks before the full moon of each year. Failure to comply shall be deemed apostasy.'"
An unnatural stillness descended upon the room.
Then, the Bishop erupted in a bellow of laughter, the flesh of his face jiggling like disturbed jelly. "Excellent! Most excellent!" He heaved himself to his feet, gold robes rustling, and waddled towards No. 7. Only then did No. 7 appreciate his surprising agility for one of such prodigious girth.
"I have always maintained that No. 7 is my most favored child." The Bishop's voice became a treacly balm, his fingers brushing No. 7's swollen cheek. "It appears yesterday's… unpleasantness… was merely a minor chastisement from the great Jupiter for your… theological jests." His fingertips reeked of stale, cloying perfume. "You comprehend now, do you not? Your every utterance, every action, is observed by the divine."
No. 7 stood rigid, a statue of ice. He could discern every flicker in the Bishop's pupils; those murky, grey-blue orbs held not a scintilla of genuine warmth.
"Silas!" The Bishop whirled. "How could you strike him so grievously? Look at this child's comely face!" He tutted with exaggerated concern. "Attendant! Take him for proper ministration. Apply some cedar balm." He clapped No. 7's shoulder repeatedly, each blow a small jolt.
No. 7 forced a stiff smile. Escape was paramount. To forestall any further… developments, he declared in a resonant voice, "I understand perfectly, Your Eminence," and executed a profound bow.
The instant the heavy wooden door thudded shut behind him, No. 7's knees nearly gave way. The chill corridor air scoured his lungs, a welcome antidote to the saccharine, putrid miasma of the office.
He couldn't resist a backward glance. Through the rapidly narrowing crack, the Cardinal Sin Bishop's fleshy, lotus-like hand remained upraised. His smile, plastered across his face, seemed to warp and distort in the deepening shadows, the mole on his eyelid a bloated fly gorging on carrion.
"Move along. I'll escort you to the infirmary," the waiting instructor grumbled. No. 7 hastened his steps, only to collide with a warm bulk at the corner.
"Oof!" No. 3 clutched his chest, grimacing. His good-natured, simple face was a high-definition horror show to No. 7's new eyes: the peeling sunburn on his nose, the jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow, even the errant breadcrumbs clinging to his eyelashes. The overwhelming clarity, paradoxically, eroded any sense of familiarity, transforming him into an anatomical specimen.
No. 6 materialized from the gloom, her eyes catching the lamplight like polished obsidian.
No. 7's breath caught. Her freckles… they were a delicate, light brown, like cinnamon dusted over cream. Her face was smudged, faintly greasy, her hair an untamed bird's nest—evidence of a restless, unwashed night. She looked up, worry and bone-deep exhaustion swimming in her eyes. "Your face… Are you alright?"
Ignoring the instructor's impatient glare, No. 7 stepped forward, enveloping his two companions in a fierce embrace.
"I'm fine now," he murmured, the words a promise. "Everything's going to be alright."
***
Back in the Bishop's office, the Cardinal paced, rubbing his hands together with the dry, incessant friction of a fly. After a moment, he turned to Silas, who stood immobile as an iron watchtower. A sly smirk twisted his lips, his eyes glinting with suspicion. "A veritable miracle, No. 7's recovered sight, wouldn't you agree, Silas?"
"Your Eminence, it was a misunderstanding born of my own impulsive, flawed judgment. I offer my sincerest apologies for wasting your valuable time." Silas's voice was flat, devoid of inflection.
"Haha! A misunderstanding, is it? Excellent." The Bishop's chuckle was dry as dust. "Then it seems this year's candidate remains unchanged. No. 3 it is."
Silas released a breath he seemed to have held all day, expelling a weight of accumulated dread. He offered a shallow bow, the tension visibly seeping from his frame. "Thank you, Your Eminence."
"A pity, though," the Bishop mused, smacking his lips, a strange light flickering in his piggy eyes. "No. 7's command of the Tidal Force is… quite remarkable. Had *he* been the one to participate in the ceremony… well, the results might have been rather more… potent."