The boy sat quietly within the cage, his back resting against cold iron bars, untouched by the tension around him. Then he spoke — calmly, clearly.
"Very well," Froy said softly. "If you're not ready to swear yourselves to me, I won't force you. I'll help you this time."
"But someday, I will ask for something in return — equal and fair."
He paused, eyes gleaming like distant stars in a night with no moon.
"Sethvyr and I will always welcome you… on the day your road ends, and faith is the only light left in your darkness."
Without another word, Froy lifted a hand and invoked his second Miracle.
A faint violet glow shimmered over the slaves' bodies — and then, one by one, the slave brands burned away into harmless ash, leaving only clean skin behind.
Gasps filled the cage. Hope flickered.
Froy simply smiled, a touch of steel behind the softness.
"Everything has a price," he said. "Wouldn't you agree?"
He pointed calmly toward the tent where the slaver slept soundly, unaware of the shifting balance in the world.
"And what I want in return… is a sacrifice."
Brumgar stared at his arm, where the slave mark had just vanished in a flicker of pale light. For a moment, he said nothing — only breathed, slow and heavy.
Then, wordlessly, the dwarf rose to his feet.
The chains that once bound him clinked softly as he stepped forward. He gripped the bars of the cage, thick fingers curling around iron — and this time, with a deep growl rising from his chest, he pulled.
Metal shrieked.
With a sound like thunder, the bars twisted and tore apart in his grip. The cage door burst open.
The others stared in awe, but Brumgar only looked down at his hands — calloused, scarred, strong — and whispered to himself:
"It's gone… the damn mark is gone."
He turned to Froy, eyes burning not with gratitude — but with something older, deeper.
Debt.
"You've got your sacrifice, boy," Brumgar said, voice low and dangerous. "He dies screaming."
And with that, the blacksmith strode into the slaver's tent.
The slaver stirred from his drunken sleep, his eyes snapping open as he heard the shriek of twisting iron.
"What the fuck is—?!"
He bolted upright, fumbling for the glowing rune etched into his palm — the one used to control slave marks.
But nothing happened.
The magic was dead.
The panic in his eyes turned to raw fear. He barely had time to react before a solid fist smashed into his jaw with the force of a hammer.
Crack.
Brumgar stood over him, expression stone-cold, his fist already raised again.
The slaver wheezed, coughing blood, but the blacksmith didn't let up. He grabbed the man by the hair and dragged him out of the tent like a sack of meat.
"Still breathing," he muttered. "Good."
He tossed the slaver down before the cage and pulled a ring of keys from the man's belt. One by one, he unlocked the others' chains — silent, efficient.
When he reached Froy, the boy had already stepped calmly out of the now-ruined cage.
Froy didn't look at the slaver.
Didn't need to.
He just spoke, his voice like a knife.
"Kill him."
There was no ceremony.
No last words.
Just the sound of Brumgar's axe swinging — and silence.
Aryvael turned her face away, eyes clenched shut. She couldn't watch. Couldn't listen.
Selene wrapped her arms around her sister, shielding her gently from the blood, but kept her own gaze fixed — calm and unflinching — as the slaver's final scream was cut short.
"It's done," she whispered, more to Aryvael than anyone else.
Luma stood still, her silver ears twitching, eyes cold as steel.
"That bastard deserved worse," she muttered. "This was mercy."
Froy said nothing. He merely turned his back to the corpse, as if the execution was already yesterday's news.
Froy stepped forward, his bare feet brushing against blood-speckled soil.
He looked down at the severed head still clutched in Brumgar's hand, then raised his own.
"I accept your offering."
There was no chalice.
No altar.
No sacred circle.
But there was him.
And Sethvyr.
The air shifted. Thickened.
The power of sacrifice — the weight of faith — surged through the boy's body like a divine current. His limbs tingled. His breath caught.
It felt like something sacred.
Something holy.
Something real.
In the stillness of his mind, a voice stirred.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Froy asked silently.
"That I didn't need the chalice?"
Sethvyr's voice returned, smooth as silk and dark as dusk.
"Because I wanted you to discover it for yourself. You are the vessel now — merged with a shard of me. You are the altar."
There was a pause. Then, almost amused:
"But with the chalice… you would become even more."
Selene stepped forward, brushing her bright
silver hair from her face as she looked toward the carriage reins.
The strands shimmered faintly in the firelight — like soft starlight woven into silk — echoing the quiet strength in her eyes.
"I can handle the wagon," she said calmly. "I've driven one before."
Luma's silver-furred ears twitched, blending seamlessly into her pale, ash-gray hair, short and wild like a wolf's mane. She gave a small nod. "I'll assist. Two pairs of eyes are better than one."
That was a relief.
With the slaver dead, there was no one left to drive — but now, they had capable hands and willing hearts.
Brumgar cracked his knuckles and glanced at the surrounding woods. "I'll take first watch. Wouldn't be surprised if something was already sniffing around."
As the others moved to prepare, Froy stepped to the edge of the camp and looked at the now lifeless hand of the slaver.
The black sigil burned into the man's palm had faded slightly — no longer glowing faint red like before.
It had always seemed strange.
He now realized: it wasn't just a slaver's brand or a seal of authority. It was a sigil tied to demonic worship — a pact, perhaps, that granted minor protection.
Not an artifact. Not a relic.
Just... a mark.
And now that its owner was dead, the magic it provided was gone.
Their wagon was no longer hidden.
Beasts. Bandits. Worse.
They would come.
The road to Solmira would be far more dangerous than expected.
But Froy simply watched the mark fade into ash — then turned to his followers.
"Let's move."
Before they departed, Froy stepped beside the corpse.
With a calm motion, he drew forth the sacred chalice — its surface dark as onyx, veins of violet light pulsing faintly across the metal as if alive.
He held it high.
"One soul, wretched and vile... offered not in honor, but in use. Let it be fuel, let it be ash. Let it serve."
The chalice shimmered.
A low hum filled the clearing as the body of the slaver shivered, then began to break apart — flaking away like dust caught in windless firelight. No bones. No blood. Just empty space where a man once laid.
The chalice pulsed once in his hand.
Froy felt it — a small surge of energy flowing into the artifact. Not much. Barely enough to stir the edge of his link to Sethvyr.
But still, it was power.
And power would always have its place.
Without a word, he tucked the chalice back beneath his cloak and turned to the others.
Selene had already taken the reins. Luma was at her side, eyes scanning the treeline.
Brumgar climbed up onto the wagon bed, axe in hand, settling down like a quiet mountain preparing to endure a storm.
Froy stepped onto the wagon last.
He did not look back.
The wheels turned.
And so began the journey to Solmira — into the land of light, under the gaze of false gods.
The road was long.
But now, the boy was no longer alone.