Author Games: Path of the Guildpact

Semifinals: Mikaela Gavreel

The Church of Deals is nearly empty at the crack of dawn.

I step into Orzhova with a strange sense of calm, boots soft against the tile as I take long strides towards the coffin. The stone pews pass me by, falling back in the wind of my cape—a bold red made gentle by the hall's tinted lighting. Guildmage Sharikov sits in one of the middle rows as the morning's only other visitor, and I bow in greeting as he acknowledges me with a nod. Following the exchange, we go back to our own little spaces, the sound of his tapping foot echoing in the large hall as I head towards the platform.

I pull to a stop just a short distance away. Jace Beleren's coffin sits raised on a long table draped in satin, its surface embossed with intricate detail and trimmings of nacre. The walls circle around it with a wide berth, full-length windows of stained glass reaching towards the ceiling. I push my helmet back a little and glance up. A beam of light filters through the glass of the dome-shaped ceiling, crowning the coffin with a halo.

There's always light in the darkness, is what Manakel once said. Even the devil plays with fire. Before I stopped honing my magic, she was a teacher of mine for years. Not that it matters anyhow, but it gave me something to think about. Seven trials in and I face the eighth, home waiting at the ninth. I dread it as much as I don't. Despite all I've done, I'm here as their representative—the title no longer sits right, but it kindles the same sense of duty I'd always been known for having.

And as a representative of Boros, I bring its customs with me.

My fingers close around the handle of a borrowed sabre. With a light tug, I pull it from my sheath. Then, swiftly, I drop onto my left knee with the right one bent in front of me.

In the first of two steps, I lift the blade and position it vertically in front of my face. Up and forward thirty degrees, then down towards my right foot in a diagonal sweep till the point touches the floor. A mark of respect. Reserved only for soldiers who die in the line of duty, but in this case a statement of noble sacrifice.

All in all, I have to do it thrice.

I lift the blade again, the edge before my nose, bringing it down till I hear the same clink of metal against tile. An expression of gratitude. It is appreciation for what was done by the living, for the life that served rather than the sacrifice of death. I found it more meaningful than the first in all its ways, though the third outranked it by a mile.

One last time, I raise the sword, cutting the blade downwards till its tip strikes the floor. A measure of courage.

I look up. Somehow, I have to let the moment linger before pushing myself to my feet. Courage. The part of my head I let run too far amuses itself with symbolism—the courage to stand up again. There is a lot of courage revolving around the word. It requires bravery to stand up for what is right, or to make a stand against the wrong. There's courage in standing guard against a threat or standing up for a friend.

I know because of this that Jace Beleren had courage. There are more things than "standing up" that command it. It takes guts to steal, cheat or lie. What form of bravery caused his death? If a worthy Guildpact was one who'd proven himself capable of lethality, there was definitely much more corruption between the guilds than I dared to imagine. Was he silenced by the Dimir for working against their favour, or reaped by the Orzhov for being unjust? It seems that for a Guildpact, there's never a solution. When picking one side over another, the decision can only ever be half right.

I turn away. If Jace Beleren's responsibility landed on my shoulders, I'd be left without a clue.

A voice croons next to my ear. "Mikaela Gavreel. Aren't you charming in that uniform?"