Flagitious Times

It was an uneasy moral ground that Marik inhabited. She had been taught that each person was born in his rightful place as ordained by the gods, and that no man should seek to exceed his caste lest the gods strike him down for doubting their wisdom. Worth was granted, not earned.

And then she had killed a man who had tried to kill her. She had done it instinctively, gracefully, with the man’s own sword. He had been an assassin by trade, and such people were not meant to die easily. When his fellows found her, she assumed they were the hand of Tosh coming to exact vengeance.

She remembered the questions, the sleep deprivation, the torture. She remembered the pale face of the guild master, Lady Clarissa, deep blue eyes searching her own black ones. Finally, she remembered the Lady’s words to her just before she began her training.

“These are flagitious times,” the Lady had said. “We must make ourselves worthy of them.”

Perhaps, Marik had thought, the gods granted worth to those bold enough to seek it?

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