They say the cold winter rain clung to him like a shroud when he ascended the wooden platform that night. The disciples in red whisper of how he, the appointed Dommer Azkhan Khorzavi, unfastened his harness and let it crash onto the wet planks with a clang, then sank to his knees in silent surrender.
They speak of the first lash, biting into his flesh without hesitation, and the second that cut even deeper. Supposedly, he only hissed, “Dark Lord, witness my pain, for I have failed,” as if the torment were both punishment and prayer.
Seven lashes in total, so the rumor goes, each one drawing more blood than the last, until the platform was slick with crimson and rain. Some say he screamed on the fourth blow, others that he remained eerily silent throughout. All agree that he finally collapsed, broken, but not at peace.
And so the word spreads among those of the cloth, a reminder that even the faithful are not spared the bite of the lash.