The road to the borderlands was long, dust-choked, and lifeless.
Ashen sat chained among thirty others in the merchant caravan, bound for the war-torn duchy of Velmire, a land caught between famine, holy taxation, and noble succession. It was a dying place—perfect for planting seeds.
Beside him, Lira dozed with her head on his shoulder. The guards believed her mute, docile, worthless. So they left her alone. They thought the same of Ashen.
He liked that.
He let the mask of silence stretch long, cold, and dull. He allowed the overseers to ignore him. Only when he caught the scent of incense on the wind did he lift his eyes.
A priest walked past.
He was drunk.
Ashen could tell by the staggering gait and wine-stained fingers. But his robes—though frayed—still bore the sunburst sigil of Serathiel, Lord of Light. The mark burned faintly, like a dying brand.
The priest paused by the caravan. He squinted at the slaves with vague disgust, then burped.
"Any of them blessed?" he slurred.
"No, Father," a guard replied. "Just dregs. Salt rats. One mute, rest dumb."
The priest made a sign of warding. "Praise be the Light. May He sift them to ash."
He turned to go—but then stopped.
His eyes met Ashen's.
And for a moment, the haze in those eyes cleared.
"You…" he whispered.
Ashen said nothing.
"You've got rot in you."
Still, Ashen didn't flinch. He merely blinked once.
The priest staggered back. "Hah. I must be seeing things. Too much sun… too much wine…" He turned and shambled away, muttering verses to himself.
But Ashen watched the sunburst glow on his back until it vanished.
Three days later, they arrived in Velmire.
It was a city of stone and screams.
Hunger had reduced it to gnawed bones and incense smoke. The nobles prayed in their towers. The poor rioted in the alleys. And in the shadow of it all, the House of Tahlon prepared for collapse.
The lord was dying. The heir had vanished.
Ashen smiled inwardly.
The perfect crack in the wall.
The slaves were auctioned in the blood square, a place once used for heretic burnings. Lira fetched barely a coin—sold as a handmaid to the keep. Ashen, strangely, went unsold.
No one bid on him.
His eyes were too calm.
The merchant, frustrated, dragged him to a side tent. "I'll just give you to the old drunk in the tower," he muttered. "Useless bastard needs someone to wipe his piss."
Ashen said nothing.
But inside, he remembered the priest's eyes.
The tower smelled of wine and mold.
Books, broken relics, and faded scrolls littered the floors. The priest—now wearing only a stained tunic and a necklace of faded rosaries—was slumped over a chair.
"Put him in chains," the merchant ordered. "He's yours."
The priest didn't even look.
As the merchant left, Ashen took in the room. On the far wall hung a shattered holy mirror—once a vessel for divine visions. It now reflected nothing but dust.
"Thought I recognized your rot," the priest muttered. "You're not blessed. But you're not clean either."
Ashen studied him.
"Name?" the priest grunted.
"Ashen."
The priest laughed once. "Fitting. I'm Corren. Drunk, defrocked, and not yet dead."
He tossed a rusted key across the room. "You want to kill gods? Start by cleaning their shit off the floor."
That night, Ashen waited until Corren passed out.
Then he pried open a sealed drawer.
Inside, he found it:
A Prayer Codex. Ancient. Faded. Pages torn, margins scribbled with doubts, curses, and questions.
Corren had once been a scholar of miracles. Before the rot.
Ashen turned the pages slowly.
And felt the Echoes rising again.
🔸 You have read a corrupted holy manuscript.
🔹 + Echo Rank: Remains at D (Echo-Touched)
🔹 + Corruption: +2.2% → Now 6.0%
🔹 + Memory Recovered: "Heavenblade Prince – First Betrayal"
🔹 + Insight Gained: Serathiel's Binding Words – Fragment
🔹 Divine Awareness Risk: Low (Suppressed by drunken sanctity)
From the window of the tower, Ashen looked out across Velmire.
A storm was gathering.
And deep within the city, in a noble manor half-eaten by rot, a sickly boy stirred from fever.
Tahlon.
The heir. The broken prince.
The final piece.