The Secular Authority

Before I can stop myself, I’m walking back out into the main room. The Chief is sitting in a large, worn armchair by the fire, reading a book. He looks up as I approach, his expression neutral.

"Is everything alright?" he asks. 

"Yes, it’s wonderful. Thank you" I say quickly. My heart is starting to beat a little faster for some reason. 

"I… I was just wondering if I could get to know you better?" I bite my lip, realizing how forward that sounds. 

The fire crackles as a log shifts sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

The Chief’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of an old, deep sadness, there and gone in an instant.

He closes the book and sets it aside. He looks at the fire for a long moment before his gaze finally returns to me. 

The warmth is gone, replaced by that same penetrating, analytical curiosity he’d shown me during my ‘interrogation’. 

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he gestures to the chair opposite his. "Sit, Shikara."

My stomach suddenly twists into a knot of apprehension as I find my place in the seat.

"Now that we're finally alone." he says, his voice deep and steady, "Why don't you tell me the real reason you’re here in my village."

The feeling of safety I just had is expelled as I realise my interrogation was never truly over. This is the callback.

My mouth goes dry. My carefully constructed persona, the scared but resilient nomad, feels like a cheap costume under the glare of his perception. 

"I… I don’t understand." I stammer, the line feeling doesn’t even convince my own ears.

"You are an exceptional performer. The story was well-crafted. The sheltered upbringing clashing with the life of a nomad… it was a beautiful contradiction, just plausible enough to be believed by those who want to believe it." His words erupt out of his mouth with a judicial conviction. 

"Let’s start with the most glaring hole in your story. You mentioned travelling with a ‘small party’. But when you stumbled into my village, injured and terrified, you spoke of the Jougolin, of your fall, of your fear to the guards. But you never once showed any concern for your estranged companions."

A cold envelopes my back as the Chief doesn’t retreat from his accusation. 

"You never asked for help finding them." he continues, in a relentless rhythm. "You never asked if we could send out a search party. You never cried for your lost friends or wondered aloud if they were safe. Your entire focus, from the moment you arrived, has been on your own survival. That is the reaction of a person who is alone. Not the reaction of a person who has been separated from their companions."

He’s right. It’s such an obvious flaw, a catastrophic oversight in my script.

In my desperate focus to make my own character believable, I forgot to account for the emotional weight of the characters I had invented. 

I treated them like they were props, so easily taken off the stage. A real person would be frantic, consumed with worry. My lack of concern wasn't just suspicious; it was damning.

"They… we were scattered." I try, but the words feel like sand in my mouth. "I didn’t know where they went. I thought… I thought I had to save myself first."

"A reasonable thought." the Chief concedes with a nod. "But the terror of a beast has passed. You are safe now. Fed. Your ankle mending. And still, you did not ask."

He leans back in his chair, the wood creaks loudly in the silence. 

"Your fear of men is real. I saw that. It’s a deep, ingrained thing. Your caution is real. But your history is a fabrication. Your knowledge is, as you said, a patchwork."

My brain races, desperately searching for another lie, another scene to play. But there are none left. He has stripped away the costume, the makeup, the character, and is staring at the naked, terrified actress underneath.

My old habits: deception, avoidance, retreat rush to my head. I can run back to the shelter of my lies, build the walls higher, and pray they hold. Or I can step outside.

What was the point of a second chance if I was just going to live it the same way? Hiding. Performing. Lying to myself and everyone else.

No. I asked for a chance to be brave. To feel the weight of a decision and not crumble.

This is that moment. This is the decision.

The tension drains out of my shoulders. The frantic energy in my chest subsides, replaced by a terrifying, exhilarating calm. I point my eyes down readying myself. 

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. I meet his eyes, and for the first time, I don't try to project an emotion. I just let him see what’s there: the fear, the exhaustion, and the flicker of a desperate, newfound resolve.

"You’re right, I’m sorry I lied about who I am and where I am from." I say. My voice is quiet, but it doesn’t tremble. "But not everything I’ve told you is a lie."

The Chief’s expression remains unchanged, but I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Not triumph. Relief. He simply waits, giving me the space to continue.

I close my eyes for a second, picturing the train platform, the void, the promise I made to myself.

"My name is Shikara Kaekari and I am a lost traveller. But I am not a lost traveller from this world."