The wagon rolled on through the waning hours of the night. Though dawn crept slowly over the trees of Ythrene, the shadows clung stubbornly to the road. The mules moved in silence, driven by fear rather than command, their hooves striking the dirt in an uneven rhythm.
Selene held the reins, her back straight, jaw tight. She hadn't spoken since the nightmare had vanished. Neither had Luma, whose eyes scanned every branch, every shadow, every sound that didn't belong. Brumgar sat at the rear of the wagon, axe across his lap, watching their trail as if he expected the earth itself to rise up behind them.
No one spoke of the thing they had seen. They didn't need to.
And inside the wagon, beneath the canvas roof, two children slept on — untouched, unaware, unchanged.
Or so it seemed.
Froy stood in a place that wasn't a place. A dream that wasn't sleep.
The ground was smooth, black glass reflecting a sky of fractured stars. Above, a moon of bone hung motionless, bleeding thin streams of silver into the void. There was no wind. No warmth. No time.
And then came the voice.
"You've done well."
Froy turned.
There stood a figure — tall, robed in threads of smoke and shadow. Its face was veiled, but eyes gleamed beneath — slits of purple fire that pulsed with unreadable emotion.
Sethvyr.
"Did I pass your test?" Froy asked. His voice was calm, but something in him still burned.
"There was no test," Sethvyr replied. "Only choice. And you chose... well."
He stepped forward. The ground beneath him rippled like water, though it shattered behind each step.
"Let me teach you something. A truth. A tool. A law."
Froy nodded.
Sethvyr lifted a single finger, and the sky split.
Images poured forth — a city of gold collapsing in fire, a prophet torn apart by his own disciples, a mother drowning her child in a river of ash.
"Love is a lie," Sethvyr said. "A contract written in the language of need."
Another image: A king embracing his queen — then stabbing her in the back as she smiled.
"Emotion is weakness when left unchecked. But as a weapon..."
He turned his burning gaze to the boy.
"...it is divine."
Froy said nothing. But he watched. And he remembered.
Sethvyr stepped closer.
"Charm is not kindness. It is calculation."
"Mercy is not virtue. It is leverage."
"And faith..."
He touched Froy's chest with a single finger — and suddenly the stars convulsed.
"Faith is the leash by which gods are led."
The void shivered.
Froy opened his mouth to speak — but Sethvyr raised a hand, silencing him gently.
"Not yet," the voice echoed, more whisper than sound. "You still have much to learn."
And so the lesson continued.
Sethvyr spoke of words — how they carved deeper than blades. He taught the boy how a pause could be more powerful than a scream, how a whisper could command armies if spoken in the right ear.
"Rhetoric," Sethvyr said, "is not about truth. It's about control."
He conjured images of tyrants crowned by applause, villains made saints by silver tongues, and martyrs burned for the wrong silence.
Then came the next blade:
"Use your beauty," Sethvyr said, gesturing toward Froy's youthful face. "It is not innocence — it is armor. It disarms. It deceives. Let them underestimate you. Let them adore you. And then, when the moment is right... lead them."
He showed Froy how to walk like a shadow among wolves, how to smile without warmth, and how to cry without tears.
"Emotions are not to be felt, little one," Sethvyr whispered. "They are to be used."
Froy listened. Not like a child. But like a vessel being filled.
Only when the stars began to dim did the god finally pause.
But then, his voice deepened — not in tone, but in weight.
"Do not forget this," Sethvyr murmured, stepping closer until his towering form seemed to blot out the sky. "In this world, there is no one you can truly trust. Not the kind. Not the gentle. Not even those who call you friend."
Froy looked up, eyes calm, unwavering.
"There is only me."
Images flared — of betrayal, abandonment, lies wrapped in smiles. Elves, men, beastkin — all races the same beneath skin and language: selfish, calculating, driven by fear and hunger.
"They will love you when it is easy. And leave you when it is not. They will praise you while they benefit, and curse you the moment they do not. All hearts rot in time."
Sethvyr reached down and touched Froy's forehead with a clawed finger.
"Survive. Become more. Bring me greatness... and bring me faith."
There was no hesitation in the boy's voice.
"I will."
He meant it.
Because for Froy — this god, this presence — was not just a voice in the void.
He was a friend. He was a teacher. He was family.
He was all Froy had left.
The void around them dimmed, stars melting into streaks of color like oil in water. But the sensation did not fade. Sethvyr's presence remained — heavy, warm, all-encompassing. Not like a fire. Not like a father. But like a storm sheltering a flickering candle.
"You are not like them," Sethvyr said, voice now soft, almost soothing. "You were never meant to walk among them as one of their own. You are apart. Above. A vessel of will and ruin. You will bring down idols and raise monuments in my name."
Froy's eyes drifted across the sky of the dream, which was now alive with movement. He saw armies marching. He saw a city burning beneath twin suns. He saw himself — taller, robed in black and gold, standing at the gates of a cathedral while thousands knelt.
"Do you see it?" Sethvyr whispered. "Do you feel it calling?"
Froy nodded slowly, the images reflecting in his glass-like eyes. He didn't know where they came from — whether they were prophecy or illusion — but it didn't matter.
"I'll build it," he said. "In your name."
"And you shall walk unburned in the fires of their hatred," Sethvyr replied. "You will not need their love. You will not need their pity. Only their fear... and their reverence."
The stars above swirled faster. Shapes formed and vanished — pillars of smoke, chained angels, children wearing crowns of thorns.
"But first, you must grow. You must learn. You must listen."
Froy stood silent, absorbing every word like scripture.
"You have seven days," Sethvyr said at last. "Seven days before your feet cross into Solmira. The land of light. The kingdom of golden lies."
The god's voice turned sharp, venomous.
"They will smile. They will praise. They will invite you in. But do not be fooled. Their holiness is hollow. Their gods are deaf. Their light burns only those who kneel."
The boy's small hands curled into fists.
"I won't kneel."
Sethvyr smiled — or perhaps the void smiled through him.
"Then rise."
Froy opened his eyes.
The wagon rolled steadily through a morning mist. Light filtered through the treetops, pale and gold. Selene remained at the reins, Luma beside her, Brumgar dozing with an axe across his chest.
Aryvael still slept.
But Froy was awake.
And he remembered everything.
"Now... you may wake."
The sun had risen. The wagon rolled. And the road to Solmira lay open before them.