Rusted bars, torchlight dancing in the distance, mocking him.
It left his cell in the dark—his entire world now, reeking of sweat and urine.
And Konrad wasn't alone in it.
A rustle got through his dulled senses, his bracelet dragging him down.
That once-familiar feeling of his head spinning made thinking impossible.
What happened? He rushed to Halaima only to end up in the catacombs. Vargas even warned him to expect everyone to be his enemy. But the Inquisition? The Church that raised him?
Okay, yeah, if anything, that should've been a red flag—
"Did she call you Prodigy?" A strained voice startled him, but Konrad was too weak to jump.
Hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking.
"The executioner," the voice demanded. "Sister Stella. Did she call you a Prodigy?"
Why did it sound so familiar? He couldn't make that face out in the dark, and the fog in his brain refused to lift completely, but—
"F-father Alastair?!"
"Konrad," the priest yelled, wrapping him in his arms. "It's you. But it shouldn't be. Why? Weren't you in Aset? Why did you come back?!"
His voice caused more rustling in nearby cells. Coughs, whimpers, but nobody else said a word.
"I was, for a month." Why was it so difficult to talk? "But a letter from the king—"
"The king?! How'd he—You idiot, I kept you hidden for so long, and you ruined it?"
Konrad wanted to protest, but—
"Hidden?" was all he could ask.
Alastair used him without shame all his life. But he also told him about his birthmarks.
Why'd he never take advantage of his heritage? Now that he thought about it—
"How'd you end up in here? A priest in the Inquisition's cell?"
"My greed—I was foolish," he wept, tears dampening the boy's shirt. "When you left, I'd take a bigger cut of the profit, and then one day, Otto and his Executioner showed up to claim it all."
Not much of a surprise there.
"Now they've branded me a heretic like all the minor nobles who answered the king's call."
Konrad had a hunch there was no real heresy here, but what did they do to earn the Inquisition's wrath? "The Code of Conduct," he muttered, the picture coming together.
"Don't tell me your name's on it?" Alastair sniffed.
That text. It was so dry—what was so special about it?
A list of nobles. Obligations and rights in governing Halaima. A clause in case they failed—
"The Inquisition took control," the boy mumbled.
"Indeed, we did." The voice gave him goosebumps. Steps echoed in the catacombs, and everyone fell silent. Not even a cough. "We don't need your kind to butt into our business."
Father Alastair crawled into the furthest corner before she stopped at his cell.
"Now, show me that bracelet of yours, Ser Prodigy," Sister Stella demanded.
Something in her voice compelled Konrad to raise his arm.
"Amazing, it's like five pounds of pure adamantite," she sounded amused. "Worth hundreds of gold. It almost fractured—you might be the first noble worth keeping alive."
Konrad flinched as she snapped another flimsy bracelet onto his wrist.
The other one—now thick and heavy—fell and shattered.
"Show me how fast you can transmute this one—I'll be back tomorrow with another." Her smile sent a chill down his spine, but she was gone once she picked up the pieces.
The rustling in the darkness told him that Father Alastair was back by his side.
"Impossible," he breathed, grabbing his arm. "They've banned these centuries ago."
"What is this?" the boy asked. It felt lighter, but no less cold and draining than the one before.
"Old transmutation artifact, without failsafes," the priest muttered. "Sorcerers couldn't remove it, and it drained them dry after a few grams of—"
"Genius, like when Zoltan's fireball went out of control, but it's an artifact—"
His brain, still sluggish, went into overdrive.
"Adamantite—that brittle lump she took," Alastair explained. "By itself, it's useless, but its alloys yield the hardest metals with mana conductivity."
"So they use me as a mana-fabricator?!" Konrad groaned at the bracelet.
It grew slower than the previous one. His abysmal recharge rate?
Gabrielle said he had to do something about it—
"I doubt it'd be intentional, but—How'd you even have such mana?" the priest wondered. "That note warned us that you were the cursed one—"
"Cursed?" It was his turn to grab his shoulders. "The note? From my basket?! You still have it?"
"H-how do you know?" Alastair stuttered. He never showed him, but Konrad remembered. "I-if they haven't burnt my archives—but I know the words, more or less—"
His eyes glinted, tightening his grip. "Out with them. Now."
Alastair cleared his throat.
"I-it said you're Konrad, son of Erwin Halstadt, and Nara of the Two-Tailed Dog tribe."
The first was no longer a surprise, but—Nara? Was her mother indeed from a tribe?
"And a strange riddle of some sort," the priest added. "The spirits cursed one twin; the other has their blessing. One brings wealth to the tribes, the other only ruin."
With how his life started, no wonder the old man thought he was the cursed one—
Wait. Hold on.
"A twin?!"
***
Meanwhile, in the tribe's encampment, it didn't matter how much Welf rubbed his eyes.
"Say, Eyna, did I drive that carriage slow?" he muttered, watching Konrad emerge from a tent.
No, the resemblance was uncanny—same jaw, same birthmarks on his left hand. But where Konrad's eyes were always calculating, this boy's blazed with fire.
Elders knelt behind him, faces etched with reverence his friend was yet to earn.
"I'd say you were too fast, but—how did Master get here before us?" the girl asked.
No. Something wasn't right. This couldn't be him.
The blacksmith's hand flew to his sword on instinct, but—
"You must be Welf Welfson of the Blood Moon's." The stranger even talked with the voice he recognized. But his wolf pelts, and a shaman's scepter— "And the girl? Her eyes—Black River?"
"M-master," she pleaded, "please don't say you already forgot about Eyna—"
No, wrong. How could she not see the difference, always so perceptive?
Not that there were many. His hair was a bit longer, and he'd never dress this way, but—
"I can't forget someone I've never met," the boy raised an eyebrow. "But if I'm right—I'm sorry. I was there when the previous Council cast your tribe away, and by the Spirits' blessing, I'll—"
"Please, Master, no more jokes," she fell to her knees. "You've already saved us. I'm yours."
Some tribesmen leaned in to whisper something, and Not-Konrad's eyes widened.
"I see, so the Cursed One has returned," the boy boomed, raising his specter. "Whatever he did, or lied to you, it's over now. I will keep you safe, like all who belong to me."
Welf gritted his teeth. Belong to him? Lily would hand his ass to him—
"My name is Nimrod Erwinson of the Two-Tailed Dog tribe," he walked closer, offering a hand.
Erwinson? Did he mean Lord Halstadt?! But that should've been impossible.
"And now I'm the elected leader of the Tribal Council," Nimrod claimed, his voice cold. "You arrived in time to witness me reclaim my birthright, Halaima. Blessed be the Spirits."