Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 20: Crowd Control

I can't move.

The man's body lies crumpled, his face twisted in a frozen mask of terror. His mouth gaped open, but no breath passed his lips. His eyes, glassy and unseeing, were locked on something only he could witness. Over and over. Again and again.

And I was the cause.

My fingers twitch at my side. I swear I can still feel the weight of his mind in my grasp, his terror bleeding into my own. The whispers slither through my skull, thick with laughter, delighted in my action.

"There it is, there it is," they croon, sickly sweet. "You feel it now, don't you? The power. The truth. The divine hand that guides you. You were born for this Ayatoooo"

I clamp my jaw shut, nostrils flaring. I want them out, want them gone, but they are me. Twisting. Rooted. A part of my very being. The worst parts of me. My hate, anger and grief turned into this vile power.

Movement shifts beside me. The inquisitors rise from where they'd knelt, the weight of the moment finally breaking. The woman—the one who recognized my name first—steps forward. She keeps her hands visible, her expression composed.

She doesn't look at me like I've done something wrong.

She looks at me like I've proven something right.

"Awakened Daath," she says, her voice calm and assuring. "You have nothing to worry about my Lord. We will take care of this clutter."

The other inquisitors move swiftly, already snapping orders to control the crowd, their robed forms cutting between me and the onlookers.

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I force in a slow breath, then another, but my heart slams against my ribs, my pulse hammering in my ears.

I had killed that man.

And they act as if I've done nothing wrong at all.

The commotion had gathered a larger crowd then the original kneeling morons. So obviously more inquisitors rush over, their black robes flowing behind them like shadows given form. Their cold eyes sweep over the scene. It only takes a few whispered words between them and the original three before all 7 of the new ones bow in deference to me.

The first inquisitor—the woman—waves them up, voice firm. "The situation is handled. Disperse the onlookers and bring order to the square."

She doesn't have to say it twice.

The newly arrived inquisitors rise and turn to the crowd, their presence alone sending people stumbling back when their cruel eyes land on them. A few hesitate, caught between their fear and whatever idiotic impulse drives people to defy power. It doesn't matter. The inquisitors don't tolerate hesitation and they under no circumstance tolerate defiance.

One man shouts, something about injustice, about abuse of power—he doesn't get to finish. An inquisitor strikes him across the face with the back of a gloved hand, sending him sprawling in the dust before landing a cruel stomp on the back of his head knocking him out. The three men who were shouting in agreement are seized, thrown into the ground their arms twisted behind their backs as iron cuffs click into place.

"Move along," an inquisitor growls at the rest. "Unless you'd like to join them."

The people scatter, some fleeing outright, others keeping their heads low as they slink away.

And through it all, the whispers gloat.

"They see now," they purr with amusement. "No longer a fraud, no longer a fake God—"

"A real one."

I clench my jaw my eye twitches in anger, but I can't block them out.

The female inquisitor turns to me, eyes sharp with intrigue and respect. "I am Cecilia Lakeborn," she says smoothly, inclining her head. "You have nothing to worry about, My Lord."

I barely hear her. My mind is still reeling, still trapped in the image of the man collapsing, his face twisted in terror. My lips part, the words slipping out like a confession but I know its just an excuse. "That man... he killed his own brother." My voice is barely a whisper.

Cecilia's eyes glint with something almost like amusement before she lets out a quiet, delighted laugh. "Then you have done the Crown and the Divine a great service, my Lord." Her smile widens. "Murdering filth like him has no place in this world."

The whispers coil tighter around my mind, their laughter a writhing, slithering thing.

"The fool thought he could run. Thought he could hide."

"But we saw him, didn't we? We judged him. It's not our fault he couldn't handle his own sinsssss"

"I need to go," I mutter resisting the urge to barf, turning sharply on my heel. My pulse pounds in my ears as I push through the thinning crowd, walking quickly, my fingers curling into involuntarily fists.

The disgust is like bile in my throat, a sickness clawing through my chest.

For the first time in my life I had killed someone.