Page 1 of Pink Ink

HIERARCHY

Grand Magistrate

The supreme and undisputed leader of the Order.

High Saint

The second highest rank an acolyte can hold.

Six individuals are elected every five years as the high saints of their respective houses. Each high saint represents and commands the acolytes pledged to their house.

The current houses are House Shaw, House Dornmont, House Hopkins, House Sutherland, House Ellis, and House Ortiz.

Medicus

The prestigious rank granted to high saints’ relatives, and acolytes of exceptional influence.

A medicus holds authority over lower ranks and often extends their power beyond the Order, into financial or political spheres.

Paladin

The second lowest rank within the Order, yet one that bears significant responsibility.

Paladins execute crucial assignments with the ambition of one day ascending to medicus.

Neophyte

The lowest rank within the Order, reserved for new recruits and Cresswell students. They represent the vast majority of the Order’s population.

Neophytes perform menial, unsavory tasks, learning the Order’s ways through service and obedience.

Acolyte

The general term encompassing all who belong to the Order, regardless of rank.

REYNA

I’ve always been fascinated by death.

I thought my life would flash before my eyes as I lie there dying. I’d see my mother taking me to my art lessons. I’d see the day my father gifted me my first camera, right before disappearing for the rest of the year again. I thought I would relive each moment like it was yesterday.

I was wrong.

There’s a certain serenity that overcomes me whenever I’m killed; it washes off the burdens of my day, and for one peaceful second, I’m free.

I have a part to play in all this that makes the sweet call of death feel more like acceptance than fear, because to die is to know what it means to have lived.

Warm liquid oozes from a single, vertical slash above my still-beating heart. He trails the back of his latex-covered fingers down my cheek, smearing the wetness with a lover’s caress. I blink up at him against the hazy yellow light, meeting his deep-brown eyes. His gaze pierces through me, as if we’ve found love moments before the grave catches us.

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve sat in this chair, focusing on the weapon in his hand and the heat emanating from his touch. I’ve stopped struggling against the ropes tying my wrists together as I surrender to the inevitable. Death is death, no matter what way it comes.

The tip of the kitchen knife brushes along the column of my throat, like an artist tracing a figure in pencil before permanently marking it with ink. He cups my cheek as he stands behind me to face the darkness together.

In a single swipe, the blade slides along my throat, and I choke on air.

He undoes the rope around one of my wrists, then lowers my bound body onto the cold tile floor. My lungs burn with my shortening breaths, but I don’t cry or pray.

This is how it has to be.