The Inquisitor’s Hand

The penthouse doors locked. The Inquisitor drew a silver blade.

"A disappointment," the Inquisitor said to Julian. "I expected more from you. But you are a creature of chance. Unreliable."

He turned to Vesper. "Come, child. The cage is waiting."

Vesper backed up until her back hit the glass wall. She looked at the city below. It was so far down.

"Julian," she said.

Julian was held by two guards. He looked defeated. "Run, Vesper. Jump. The glass... break the glass."

"She cannot break the glass," the Inquisitor sneered. "It is reinforced with warding."

The Inquisitor grabbed Julian by the hair and pulled his head back, placing the blade against his throat.

"Cry, Vesper," the Inquisitor commanded. "Cry now. Save him. One tear of sorrow, and I spare his miserable life. Refuse, and I open his throat."

Vesper trembled.

It was the ultimate trap.

If she cried to save him, she accepted her role as the Vessel. She submitted to the Church. She became a slave.

If she let him die, she preserved her independence. But the cost was her humanity. She would be free, but she would be a monster.

She looked at Julian. He closed his eyes. "Don't do it, Vesper. Don't give them the satisfaction."

She looked at the Inquisitor. He was smiling behind the mask. He knew he had won. Destiny always won.

Vesper felt the pressure in her chest. It wasn't sorrow. It wasn't joy.

It was a hot, white, blinding fury.

She had spent her whole life being a vessel. A cup to be filled or emptied by others. She was a resource. A wager. A prayer.

She was never Vesper.

"No," she said.

The Inquisitor frowned. "No?"

"I won't cry for him," Vesper said. "And I won't cry for you."

She closed her eyes, but not to suppress. She reached into the well of her soul, past the sadness, past the fear, and found the rage. She grabbed it with both hands and *pulled*.