The Weakness of the Good
The harvest had failed that season, and the stores at the Temple of Shadows ran low. The Warden chose me to accompany him to the village, a rare privilege. "We’ll return with new seeds," he said, his voice flat, "so that the land may give once more."
The village was loud and bustling, its market packed with farmers and traders bartering over grains and tools. The Warden moved like a shadow through the noise, his presence cutting through the chaos as he selected the seeds we needed.
Our work was swift, and as we departed, the sun began its descent. Just as we left the edge of the village, a scream tore through the air—a raw, desperate sound that silenced everything else. Without a word, the Warden turned toward the source. I followed, my heart pounding.
In a narrow alley, we found her: a young woman pinned against the wall, her clothes torn, her cries swallowed by the cruelty of two men. They didn’t notice us at first, their laughter echoing off the brick walls.
The Warden didn’t hesitate.
Before I could comprehend what was happening, he had closed the distance. One of the men turned, startled, but he was too slow. The Warden’s hand shot out, seizing him by the throat. With a sickening crack, the man’s neck gave way, and his lifeless body crumpled to the dirt.
The second attacker froze, his grip on the woman releasing as he stepped back, his hands raised in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, trembling. “Please... I didn’t mean—”
The Warden’s eyes bore into him, his expression unreadable.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low but commanding.
The man hesitated, then shuffled forward, his knees buckling with each step. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice cracking. “It won’t happen again—please.”
The Warden turned to the woman. She was shaking, her face pale, her breath shallow. For a moment, I thought he would let the man go.
But then, like a bolt of lightning, the Warden struck. His hand shot into the man’s mouth, and with terrifying precision, he wrenched his jaw apart. The sound of bone splitting filled the alley, and the attacker collapsed, lifeless, beside his companion.
The Warden turned to the woman, his voice soft, almost regretful. “I’m sorry,” he said, then motioned for me to follow.
We walked back to the temple in silence, the weight of what I had witnessed pressing down on me. I was terrified, awestruck, and confused all at once. The Warden’s actions had been swift, absolute, and brutal—so much so that I didn’t dare speak for what felt like hours.
Finally, I found the courage to ask, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Why didn’t you spare him?”
The Warden stopped. For the first time, I saw a flicker of rage in his eyes—rage that wasn’t directed at the men but at something deeper, something intangible. He looked up at the darkening sky, his expression hardening.
“Napoleon once said,” he began, his voice heavy with conviction, “‘The world is not ruined by the wickedness of the wicked, but by the weakness of the good.’”
With that, he turned and continued walking, leaving me to wrestle with the unease churning inside me.
The temple walls loomed in the distance, but the weight of the lesson stayed with me: in the face of evil, hesitation is not just weakness—it is complicity.
And yet, I could not help but wonder if the Warden carried his own shadow, one that even he could not escape.