In the afternoons, before preparations for the evening meal were due to begin, the orphans had a precious hour of free time. Most of them spent this time outdoors, or in the library, or in the nearby town. Naz spent many of his free hours in bed. Like all the other orphans he slept in a dormitory, a huge long draughty room built of solid stone, rows upon rows of bunk beds crowding the space inside. His was the lower bunk, which suited his purposes just fine—he'd hung a sheet up so that what he was doing wouldn't be seen. It was a somewhat clumsy way of hiding, he knew, one that wouldn't bear any kind of close inspection, but anyone just casually glancing into the dorm most likely wouldn't notice this single abnormality amongst the dozens of bunks.

As he began, as always, Naz felt intensely guilty, almost sick with it. But at the same time he knew he couldn't just keep this inside himself—these feelings were too strong, too irresistible, without release he felt he'd burst. And so, shamefully, guiltily, and always very careful to get rid of any evidence, whenever Naz felt he couldn't keep himself from doing it any more he would spend his hour here, by himself, hidden away in a private world of fantasy.

"What are you doing?"

Naz gasped and tried to pull the sheets up over the evidence of his shame as his private sanctuary was torn apart, but it was too late. Templeton had seen everything.

"I..." Naz tried to speak, to say something, but found his tongue thick, his face hot and flushed, his entire body burning with embarrassment and fear and guilt. "Please don't say anything! Don't tell anyone!"

"What IS this?"

"Don't! Give that back!"

Naz struggled to get up as Templeton snatched the scrap of paper away, holding it up in the light to get a better look at it.

"Please!" Naz's voice was strangled, desperate, but Templeton ignored him, the frown on his face turning to a look of horrified realisation.

"You've been drawing!"

"Don't tell anyone, don't show anyone, PLEASE give it back!"

Templeton jerked the paper away as Naz grabbed at it, then pushed his free hand against Naz's chest, sending him stumbling and falling.

"Holy fire," Templeton murmured, looking at the paper once more. Upon it was an intricate drawing of a dog—not an ordinary dog, but one made of flames.

"I'll do anything, I'll be your servant, I'll do anything you say," Naz sobbed, hot tears coming unbidden as he clambered to his feet. "I can't—"

"Sorry, Naz." Templeton backed away as Naz got up. "I have to show this to them. It's my duty."

"Please, no! They'll take me to the inquisition!"

"Good. You need to be questioned. You can come with me if you like—"

"NO!" Naz cried, trying to grab the paper once more, but Templeton pushed him again, harder this time, sending him cleanly off his feet.

"Stay here, then. You should've done something about this sooner, Naz. I hope it's not too late for you."

Templeton turned and walked away. He only got a few steps before a weak but desperate tackle from behind almost brought him down.

"Are you touched?" Templeton growled, as he twisted free of Naz's grasp and pushed hard, sending him falling back.

"Ah!" Naz cried out, as the back of his head connected with the side of one of the bunks. He slumped to the ground, dizzy with pain, as Templeton made for the door leading outside.

No, thought Naz, pulling himself up even as his vision blurred, no! No one can see that drawing, the inquisition will take me, they'll stop me! Naz staggered forward, the paper in Templeton's hand his only focus, everything else in the world was blurred and indistinct, the only thing holding any importance at all that grubby scrap of paper that was even now being taken away, taken away to be shown to everyone, to the inquisition, who would look at it and demand to see its creator. They'll come for me, Naz thought, as he stumbled forward, holding on to the bunk beds for support, they'll come for me and they'll take me and they'll ask questions I won't be able to answer and they'll stop me from drawing these things that I draw and thinking these thoughts that I think, if only I'd burnt it, if only I could have burnt it like the others, if only—

There was a sudden cry of surprise and pain from Templeton as the paper in his hands burst explosively into flames—but the fire didn't stop there. Naz watched in horror as the flames leapt to Templeton's sleeve, and from there to the bunk beside him, its progress shockingly fast. Another cry made Naz turn—he saw one of the priests standing in the doorway to the dorm, staring in shock at the scene before himself. Feeling suddenly oddly calm, Naz turned back to look at Templeton, who was beating at his arm with his other hand, while the fire on the bunk beside him burned hotter and higher.

No, Naz thought. Beating at the fire won't put it out. You just have to—

As suddenly as the fires had begun, they ended. Naz was pushed aside by the priest as he rushed to Templeton's side. He grabbed him by the wrist and stared at his burns, then turned to look at the scorched bunk. Then the priest turned to fix a cold gaze on Naz.

"We must learn what happened here," he said.

It was a week later.

Seven days since Naz and Templeton had been taken before the inquisition.

Five days since Naz had been released from questioning.

Four days since Naz had first lit and then extinguished a candle by looking at it.

Three days since Templeton had been executed.

Two days since Naz had slept.

It's me, he thought for the thousandth time, as he mouthed the words to the twelfth prayer along with the others. I'm the one. Templeton died because they thought he did it. But it was me. I'm the cursed one. It should have been me up on the platform, hanging from the gallows.

"It was me."

It took Naz a moment to realise that it was he who had spoken. It took him another to realise that he was standing, and that everyone else in the church was staring at him. He looked up at the priest.

"I need to confess," said Naz.

This is right, Naz thought, as he walked slowly along the corridor, two inquisition guards walking in front of him, two behind. It should have been me that died. Now this makes things right.

Naz blinked as they emerged into the light; it was an unusually sunny morning, hardly any clouds in the sky at all. He solemnly walked forward, his gaze fixed straight ahead, trying to ignore the masses of people gathered around, and he stepped up on to the stone platform in the middle of the square.

"The one that was known as Naz Abram; now know him as Demon."

Naz was silent. This is right, he was thinking. Templeton died because of me. Now I will die. That is right.

The priests on the platform with him talked passionately of his crimes and his sins and how the demon lived within him; or rather that he WAS a demon. Even now, in Naz's moment of clarity, he wasn't sure what the priests were actually saying. In some moments it seemed he was fully responsible for his actions, in others it seemed that some outside force—the demon—had forced him to do it. In any case one thing WAS sure; he, Naz, must be punished.

"And so," said the lead priest, a man Naz didn't recognise, "his crimes compounded, his death shall be that of slow strangulation." The priest turned to regard Naz with cold blue eyes. "Not the sharp, swift snap for you, boy."

Boy or demon, Naz thought, which is it?

"Indeed!" said another priest, a short fat man Naz knew from around the temple, though not by name. "There is no mercy to be found for cowardly monsters who willingly hurl innocent boys into the pressing darkness! Before he dies he is to be marked with the symbol of his actions; Demon, I name you BETRAYER!"

There was silence from the surrounding crowds, pressing silence that was worse than any screaming or shouting could have been. Just hundreds of eyes, all on Naz, all bearing witness to his punishment.

Naz knelt even before he was pushed down, as the branding iron was brought forth. It was huge and glowed red-hot, in the rough shape of a feather; the symbol of cowardice and betrayal.

"LET HIM BE MARKED!" the short, fat priest cried, and the branding iron was pressed firmly against Naz's bare back. He cried out, then found the strength to be silent—somehow, the pain was bearable, nothing like as bad as he'd imagined it would be.

"DEMON!" cried the priest, and Naz looked up to realise something was wrong—the pain in his back disappeared as soon as the brand was pulled away, and the people in the crowds were staring at him with fear in their eyes. "His very skin rejects the purity of Pyre's heat!"

Two of the inquisition guards stepped forward to haul Naz to his feet, jerking him up to be stood on a stool. He was held there while a thick noose was pushed over his head and around his neck, then his head was forced up, to see one of the priests standing in front of him.

"If his skin will not be marked by Pyre's heat, then it shall be marked by a blade FORGED from Pyre's heat!" the priest cried, raising a slim knife. "WE SHALL DRAW HIS WRETCHED ENTRAILS OUT! WE SHALL LET THEM HANG FOR ALL TO SEE!"

The priest stepped forward and pressed the cold steel of the knife against Naz's belly, then with two practised slashes cut it open. Once again, the pain was nothing like as bad as Naz had imagined it would be.

It was many, many times worse.

As he screamed out in agony, Naz was only dimly aware of the priest reaching forward—reaching inside—and pulling, felt his body spasm as his guts were drawn from his body. He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, could feel nothing but intense, burning, unbearable pain. The sudden tight pressure around his neck as the stool was kicked out from under him was a release; a sign, of sorts.

It's over, Naz thought, as blessed darkness came to him, darkness that somehow crowded out the pain and let him think, let him know that the end was near.

It's over.