Rezaron stares out the window into the courtyard as he waits. It’s hot, and he’s dressed all in black. There is a faint but continuous buzzing, the source of which cannot be easily identified, contributing to the oppressive atmosphere. He’s been there for more than an hour, waiting, with no sign from the other side of the door to which he’s been summoned. But two decades surviving in Infernal Cheliax has given him enough patience to endure these small unpleasantries.

As he watches in silence, the stillness only occasionally interrupted by someone scurrying across the courtyard below on business, he lets his mind wander. His thoughts turn, as they so often do, to the orphanage at the monastery where he had grown up. He had no memories of his parents, at least nothing beyond the faintest images of a woman looking down at him with sorrow on his face. There were other faces too, equally sorrowful. But these were nothing more than imagined memories, created by a child who cried himself to sleep wishing he had a mother and father. False memories of a weakling.

Growing up an orphan had been hard. It felt at once miserable, arbitrary, hopeless. For the first five years there was little more he felt he could do but cower in fear, desperately hoping he wasn’t forgotten, even more afraid of being noticed. The bullying was the worst—no matter how harsh the teachers and Sisters were, they were nothing compared to the viciousness of the other children.

But as miserable as it was living with them, it was one of the other children that taught Rezaron what it meant to follow Asmodeus. Tito, they had called him. He was large for his age, almost a foot taller than Rezaron at that time, who had not yet attained his own large stature. Older too, twelve years to his own eight or nine. But Tito had taught him more about Asmodeus, about order, about Law than any lesson by the Sisters ever could. The hallways and dormitories were the best classrooms in Cheliax. It was Tito who taught him the real meaning of laying down the Law, of ensuring that Chaos could not be allowed to run rampant, that even more important than this prayer or that torture, the true essence of Asmodeanism was order. Watching the life leave that boy’s eyes taught him more than any lecture ever could.

And now here he was, all those years later, an Inquisitor of Asmodeus. Despite the heat, he was proud to wear the black robes of the Inquisition, and would not have traded them for anything. Despite himself, he allowed what could charitably described as something akin to a smile. But only for a moment. There was work to be done, and he could not let something as petty as his own pride in how far he’d come get in the way.

Rezaron stares out the window into the courtyard as he waits. It’s hot, and he’s dressed all in black. There is a faint but continuous buzzing, the source of which cannot be easily identified, contributing to the oppressive atmosphere. He’s been there for more than an hour, waiting, with no sign from the other side of the door to which he’s been summoned. But two decades surviving in Infernal Cheliax has given him enough patience to endure these small unpleasantries.

As he watches in silence, the stillness only occasionally interrupted by someone scurrying across the courtyard below on business, he lets his mind wander. His thoughts turn, as they so often do, to the orphanage at the monastery where he had grown up. He had no memories of his parents, at least nothing beyond the faintest images of a woman looking down at him with sorrow on her face. There were other faces too, equally sorrowful. But these were nothing more than imagined memories, created by a child who cried himself to sleep wishing he had a mother and father. False memories of a weakling.

Growing up an orphan had been hard. It felt at once miserable, arbitrary, hopeless. For the first five years there was little more he felt he could do but cower in fear, desperately hoping he wasn’t forgotten, even more afraid of being noticed. The bullying was the worst—no matter how harsh the teachers and Sisters were, they were nothing compared to the viciousness of the other children.

But as miserable as it was living with them, it was one of the other children that taught Rezaron what it meant to follow Asmodeus. Tito, they had called him. He was large for his age, almost a foot taller than Rezaron at that time, who had not yet attained his own large stature. Older too, twelve years to his own eight or nine. But Tito had taught him more about Asmodeus, about order, about Law than any lesson by the Sisters ever could. The hallways and dormitories were the best classrooms in Cheliax. It was Tito who taught him the real meaning of laying down the Law, of ensuring that Chaos could not be allowed to run rampant, that even more important than this prayer or that torture, the true essence of Asmodeanism was order. Watching the life leave that boy’s eyes taught him more than any lecture ever could.

And now here he was, all those years later, an Inquisitor of Asmodeus. Despite the heat, he was proud to wear the black robes of the Inquisition, and would not have traded them for anything. Despite himself, he allowed what could charitably described as something akin to a smile. But only for a moment. There was work to be done, and he could not let something as petty as his own pride in how far he’d come get in the way.