Two tall, slender windows nestled deep within narrow stone crevices high above the chamber floor allowed only a meager amount of morning light to filter into the room. Most of the chamber remained cloaked in deep shadow, its ambiance barely shifting as the day progressed. Yet none of this registered with the emaciated, grimy boy who sat at the center of the room.

He sat awkwardly, his deformed right leg thrust painfully out in front of him, while his left leg tucked beneath him at an unnatural angle. His head hung low over his upturned hands. His eyes—clouded and lifeless—had been blind for as long as he could remember. He had lost his sight as an infant when a priest of the Church of Peace, convinced the child was possessed by a Demon, had sprayed alkaline solution directly into his eyes in a misguided attempt to purge the evil.

If he had ever possessed a name, it had long since vanished from his memory. He thought of himself more as a rat than a boy—small, unwanted, and hidden in the cracks of the world. No one had spoken his name in years, perhaps ever. The guards issued only the briefest of commands, and the one who held him captive had never bothered to name him. Among the rats, names were rare and unnecessary. They relied on scents and sensations—small truths carried on the wind and floor and filth. To them, he was the rat with the twisted leg: furless, faintly human-smelling, and, most importantly, a being they could trust.

The boy bent his head closer to the fat rat nestled in his upturned hands. It sat up, whiskers twitching, and let out a soft squeak toward the boy’s dirt-smudged face. Gently, he stroked the rat’s back with one finger, his touch delicate, reverent. His lips moved in response, muttering a string of quiet, unintelligible words—part rhythm, part tone, part meaning known only to him and the rats.

A few more rats emerged from the shadows, their claws clicking softly against the stone floor. Some clambered over the boy’s shoulders and lap, while others gathered at his feet, forming a loose ring of twitching noses and flicking tails. He continued whispering, responding to the squeaks and scents and sensations the rats conveyed.

To an outside observer, it might have looked like madness—an emaciated child mumbling nonsense to vermin. But to the boy, it was discourse. This was his world, his council, his communion.

He nodded slowly, as if coming to a decision, and gave the rat in his hands a final, affectionate stroke. It squeaked once, then leapt from his palms and disappeared into the darkness beyond. One by one, the others followed—vanishing into cracks and corners, disappearing beneath stones and behind walls.

In moments, he was alone again.

He sat in silence for a few minutes more, listening to the scurry of claws fading into the dark.

Then, slowly and with great effort, he shifted his weight. Pain flared in his twisted leg as he straightened it, but he bit back any sound. Grunting softly, he used his good leg to brace himself and hobbled to the door of his stone cell—the only home he had ever known.

He reached out and rapped on the heavy wood with his knuckles, then waited.

Moments passed in silence.

Then the small iron window set into the door creaked open with a groan of rusted hinges. A plump, perspiring face appeared—bearded, red from heat or exertion, and always faintly annoyed. The boy remained still and silent, lifting his face slightly toward the sliver of light and breath of air that entered with the guard’s gaze.

The man looked at him for a long moment, as if expecting some excuse or complaint. The boy said nothing. He never did. After a few seconds, the guard exhaled through his nose and slammed the window shut.

The boy waited.

He heard the latch being drawn, the scrape of metal on stone, and then the door groaned open. Torchlight spilled into the cell, flooding the space with warm gold that painted his pale, filthy skin in harsh contrast.

One of the guards stepped inside and thrust a worn wooden crutch into the boy’s hands without a word, then moved aside to let him pass. The boy limped forward slowly, the crutch tapping against the stone with each step. His good foot shuffled forward with practiced caution, his deformed leg dragging behind him like a forgotten thing.

He passed through the doorway, led by the echoes bouncing off the narrow hall.

The two guards led the boy down the corridor and up a shallow incline, just a few yards from the cell he had never left of his own will. One of them opened a small, narrow door near the end of the hall—barely large enough for the gangly boy to pass through. He ducked his head and bent low, limping forward without complaint.

As he entered the tight space, the guard snatched the crutch from his hand. The boy turned carefully and lowered himself onto the cold stone seat built into the rear wall of the closet-like room. It was a familiar place—just like everything else in his life.

The door shut behind him with a heavy clang. The latch scraped home with finality.

He waited.

Time passed. Minutes stretched long in the dark. Then, finally, the sound came: metal grating against stone.

The small, grated window set in the wall before him creaked open.

A voice slipped through the opening. Calm. Controlled.

“What do you know?”

Always the same voice. Always the same stale scent of bitter herbs and old paper. It never shouted. Never rushed. The voice of an older man, but one still strong in body and command.

The boy bowed his head slightly.

He knew better than to lie, to embellish, or to hold anything back. His place in this world was simple—he listened to the rats, and he spoke to the man. In return, he was allowed to live.

And for the past four turns, that had been enough.

“A new thing has appeared,” the boy said softly, voice steady in the darkness. “In the country near the eastern sea. A creature made of shiny stone. It smells like God-magic… and nothing.”

He paused, listening to the impressions echoing faintly in his mind.

“Some human children found it and brought it to the big city. The one protected by the Gods. The one with the castle on the hill, overlooking the sea.”

The rats didn’t know names. They didn’t use words. They conveyed their truths through sensations, scents, pulses of emotion, and blurry fragments of memory. The boy had learned to piece their meanings together over time—part translator, part seer.

“Of the boys who found it,” he continued, “one is important. He smells strongly of magic. The other… has no magic at all. But he was angry. Angry that the magic-boy was leaving. Going on a journey. With others.”

He paused again, sorting the impressions.

“Two ships,” he said at last. “They left near dawn, two days ago. Full of soldiers… and Wizards.”

The boy didn’t know the word Wizard, not as the rats understood it. But the images they shared—figures cloaked in power, radiating light and purpose—matched the descriptions he’d overheard from the guards.

“Left for where?” the voice asked, calm but pressing.

The boy hesitated. He knew better than to blame the rats—they could not read maps, nor speak any mortal tongue. But one of them, curious and clever, had glimpsed something: a great wall covered in parchment. A tall man with golden hair pointing and speaking. The words had been meaningless sounds, but the rat had remembered the picture.

“A white island,” the boy murmured, “shaped like a dragon’s head. A long river, and a mountain range. They were pointing to it.”

He sat silently, waiting for the man on the other side of the grate to respond.

“Very good,” said the voice. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” the boy replied. “Most of the rats in that same place—the country by the sea—have stopped reporting.”

He paused, sorting through the tangled impressions.

“They’re still there. Some still loyal. Some still cross the border and bring me what they can. But many… now report to something else. Or someone. I don’t know who. There have been fights. The loyal ones are being driven off.”

A silence followed—measured, contemplative.

“Do what you must to maintain our knowledge of what goes on there,” the voice said at last. “Shift your focus northward. To the land beyond the great salt marshes. The one with the snake-people. And the mountains of magic. Follow those who left on the ships. Find out where they’re going, and why.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the boy said.

It was a phrase he’d once heard a guard use—an address that pleased the voice. So he used it now, every time. It made things easier.

“You’ve done well. Return. I’ll have food sent.”

The scrape of the small grate sliding shut cut the room back into silence. Moments later, the faint sound of a heavy door opening echoed down the corridor—followed by muffled voices, too far and quiet to make out.

Then the door behind him creaked open again. A guard shoved the crutch roughly into the boy’s hands and yanked him to his feet. The boy stumbled forward, clutching the crutch tightly in one hand, the other brushing the stone wall to steady himself.

As he limped toward the low door, guided more by memory and instinct than sight, he misjudged the height of the frame. His head struck the stone arch with a sharp crack, and he reeled slightly, pain blooming across his scalp.

He didn’t cry out. He didn’t stop.

A thin trickle of blood began to run down the side of his face from a shallow cut just above his brow, but he moved forward without hesitation. Just another ache in a life full of them. The stone didn’t care. Neither did the guards. And so neither did he.

The corridor swallowed him again as the door slammed shut behind.

On the other side of the wall, a tall, stately man stepped out of a small, well-appointed chamber into a brightly lit hallway lined with exquisite tapestries. His movements were smooth and deliberate, his posture effortlessly regal.

A cadre of guards in highly polished armor fell into formation around him, forming a square of protection as he advanced down the corridor. Each man bore the symbol of the Church of Peace emblazoned on his chestplate—sunlight caught in the spokes of a wheel.

Several elder clergymen in rich ceremonial robes bowed deeply as he passed, then fell into place behind him without a word.

His Holiness Dalathalian, Pope of the Church of Peace, gestured to one of his cardinals.

“Send word to our man in Baltinet,” he said, his voice crisp and measured. “Have him assemble an investigation team to track and observe an expedition from Malminar. They’ve gone into the Glittergreen mines, for reasons that have not been made clear to us.”

He did not stop walking.

“I want to know what they’re doing, and why. I want to know immediately. Make it clear—they are not to be seen. Those from Malminar must not become aware they’re being watched. In fact, no one must.”

He paused briefly at the top of the stairs, casting a sharp glance to the side.

“And find out why our contact in Retinor failed to report this expedition. If he’s compromised, replace him. If he’s lazy, remove him.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.” The cardinal bowed slightly, then motioned to a waiting aide. The entourage continued forward, but split neatly around the two men as they stopped to speak in hushed tones. The aide disappeared quickly down a side hall, robes fluttering behind him. The cardinal, task delivered, turned and hurried to rejoin the Pope.

Suddenly, the Pope came to a halt, head tilted as if listening to some secret conversation.

The sunlight pouring through the tall windows along the southern wall dimmed without warning, as though the light itself recoiled. Then, in an instant, it burst into a kaleidoscope of color—brilliant reds, golds, greens, and blues flashing in rapid succession, dancing across the marble floor and robes of the holy men. The radiance pulsed once… twice… and was gone.

Silence fell like a curtain.

Without hesitation, the priests and cardinals around the Pope dropped to one knee, bowing their heads toward him. No one looked at the windows. No one spoke. The soldiers stood motionless, their spears held upright, their eyes scanning the corridor for unseen threats, waiting for an order.

“The Gods call me,” Dalathalian said, his voice deep and sure. “I must attend them.”

At his word, the entourage moved as one, pivoting and retracing their path down the corridor from which they had come. The Pope walked swiftly, each step filled with authority and purpose. His flowing robes snapped around his legs. Before long, many of the older priests had fallen behind, unable to keep pace.

The light of day faded as they descended, swallowed by the shadows of the lower levels. Torchlight flickered in iron sconces, painting the walls with warm orange glow. The polished marble gave way to rough-hewn stone. The air grew colder. The carved ornamentation disappeared. The further they went, the more the hallways felt like tunnels, as if they were passing out of the Church… and into something much older.

The Pope stopped at a thick iron gate that blocked the passage ahead.

It was old—far older than the grand church that now stood above the bedrock. The metal was pitted with age, blackened with time. Three large, heavy locks secured the gate, each one bearing the faded sigils of a forgotten age.

His Holiness Dalathalian reached beneath the collar of his robes and drew out a long iron chain that hung around his neck. From it dangled three keys, each as worn and ancient as the gate they served.

He inserted the first key into the top lock. With a smooth metallic click, it turned.

The second followed, then the third—each unlocking with a quiet finality, as if the mechanism remembered his touch.

As the last lock opened, the final few members of his entourage caught up, breathless from the descent.

“I will return,” the Pope said without looking back.

He stepped through the gate and pulled it shut behind him. One by one, he locked each mechanism again, top to bottom, sealing himself away from the world above.

The guards arranged themselves before the gate, spears ready, faces impassive. The priests and attendants found places along the wall—some seated on the cold stone, others standing with bowed heads. None spoke. None dared.

Dalathalian continued alone down the sloping tunnel beyond.

The light of torches faded behind him. Darkness closed in.

None of the guards or clergy ever tried to follow. None ever asked where the Pope went when he descended into the bowels of the earth to commune with the Gods.

Those who had… were no longer around to wonder.

The Pope walked through the darkness, long familiarity with the tunnel guiding his steps with effortless precision. The light from the sealed gate behind him faded quickly, until even the memory of it vanished. Yet Dalathalian strode forward with confidence, as if the path were lit with noonday sun.

After several silent turns, iron bars blocked the tunnel once more.

He reached out, placing a hand upon the cold metal. At his touch, a soft bluish glow began to spread from his palm, threading like veins across the bars. The light flowed outward, illuminating a wide, natural cavern beyond. As the glow reached its peak, the bars shimmered—and the Pope stepped through them as if they weren’t there at all.

The cavern was round and still. The blue light cast flickering shadows along the walls, revealing the shapes of several chained figures slumped or sprawled at regular intervals, barely moving. Dalathalian crossed the stone floor, circling the large altar-table in the center of the chamber.

He approached a bulky humanoid form—a beastman—curled near the wall in unnatural sleep. The Pope crouched and placed a hand lightly on the creature’s shoulder.

Then he stood, stepping back.

Another captive groaned faintly nearby. Then the beastman stirred. Round ears twitched. He sniffed the air, his head rising as memory and fury returned.

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

“Who are you,” the beastman growled, “and what have you done to me?”

His voice was low and rough, but measured—calm in a way that suggested danger, not peace.

“Let me go now, and things may go better for you.”

Dalathalian smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But I prefer to see what will come once you’ve fully recovered.”

He watched with wary interest. This one was stronger than most—physically and magically. That was why he’d been taken. He was the most promising vessel Dalathalian had seen in years.

The beastman’s nostrils flared. “I know your smell. Your voice. You were the one in charge when they took my eyes.”

His empty sockets turned toward the Pope, twin voids in the blue light.

“You’ll pay for that.”

He sniffed again, ears flicking as he gauged the room—every sound, every breath.

Dalathalian said nothing as the beastman rose unsteadily to his feet and tested the chains. His strength was returning.

“Do you think these will hold me, human?” the beastman asked, stepping forward to the full length of his bindings. The iron groaned.

Dalathalian took a measured step back, circling around the sacrificial table.

The chains had been strong. Enchanted. Reinforced.

But they weren’t meant to hold him forever.

They were meant to break.

“I believe they will… beastman,” Dalathalian spat the word like a curse. “You were brought here to serve me. And serve me, you will. You are nothing. You will learn your place.”

The beastman’s snarl deepened. He leaned into the chains. “You will pay.”

He stepped back—and lunged.

With a sudden surge of power, the chains holding his arms snapped, magic flaring as the enchantments failed with a spark and a scream of iron. Two swift kicks shattered the shackles on his legs.

He dropped into a crouch, one hand on the floor, ears flat, breathing steady.

He waited.

The magical aura he could see—Dalathalian’s—remained still, unmoved, watching.

The beastman reached out, searching for traps. Nothing. Just weakness in the other prisoners… and the strange stillness of the man before him.

The only way out… was behind the wizard.

If he killed him—he could escape.

“What’s the matter, beastman?” Dalathalian sneered. “Having second thoughts? Ready to kneel?”

He raised a hand, casually. “I defeated you once. What makes you think you can defeat me now?”

Memories of the ambush surged through the beastman.

It had been in the deserts of the Territories of the Seven Tribes of Uhl—an old Wizard confronting him at twilight. Ten armored soldiers had surrounded him just as he was preparing to make camp. He’d fought them off with a ferocity born of instinct and rage, killing five before they’d even wounded him. Between claw, muscle, and magic, they were little challenge—save for their numbers.

But the Wizard had surprised him.

While the beastman’s attention was locked on the remaining soldiers, the Wizard had slammed a magical shield between him and the flow of Rit’s magic. Cut off, disoriented, he'd barely noticed the soldier he’d thought dead rise from the dust and plunge a poisoned needle into his side.

He remembered the taste of blood and sand.

Then everything had begun to slide—tilting, spinning—darkness closing in.

He’d awoken later in chains. Groggy. Weak. His face aflame with pain where his eyes had been gouged out. And above it all, the Wizard’s voice—cold, efficient—directing his captors to bind him.

That voice belonged to the man standing across the chamber now.

Rage ignited in his chest like a storm.

He thought of nothing else but tearing out the Wizard’s throat—of feeling his lifeblood wash over his claws. He sprang forward, unleashing a blinding burst of power, a spell meant to sever the Wizard’s tie to magic. He followed with a volley of sharp force bolts—distractions, injuries, pain.

But his charge was cut short.

Something massive and unmoving blocked his path—a stone slab in the center of the room. He hit it hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.

He hadn’t seen it.

The low concentration of lotret in the cavern had dulled his ability to see through magic—an ability he’d rarely trained, but knew well enough to use. It failed him here.

Dalathalian, unmoved, stood just beyond the table, watching. The beastman’s attacks had veered to his left, drawn toward the false magical aura he projected a few feet off-center—an old trick that had saved his life many times.

He waited, calm and ready.

As expected, the beastman leapt onto the sacrificial table, snarling.

Dalathalian raised his hand—and unleashed a devastating downwash of force and air. A roaring blast crushed the beastman onto the stone, pinning him with crushing weight. Before the beastman could recover, two enchanted chains hidden at the edges of the altar flew up and wrapped around him like serpents, binding his limbs tight to the stone.

Then Dalathalian pulled the air from the room.

The growl died in the beastman’s throat as his lungs emptied in an instant, his chest convulsing in a vacuum. His aura flared brilliantly, struggling for survival, even as the chains tightened—ribs cracked under the pressure.

The Pope whispered a spell of confusion, then a severing incantation—cutting the beastman’s connection to Rit’s flow of magic.

The light dimmed. The body went still.

Only one spell remained now: the magical grip holding him in place.

From the beastman’s chest, a bright mote of power began to rise—his last breath of magic, his jzirittiah, rising into the air. A radiant essence, pulsing with resistance, trying to flee to Rit’s embrace.

Dalathalian reached out.

Spirit magic and wind entwined in his outstretched hand, beckoning the mote to him. It twisted, pulsed, tried to flee—but could not. Slowly, steadily, the light drifted toward him.

It touched his chest—and entered.

It merged with the one already burning there.

Dalathalian’s head snapped back, his mouth open in a soundless cry. His back arched, his heels rising off the floor. His arms flung wide.

The crystal atop the short staff in his right hand blazed to life, casting eerie blue light through the cavern like a lighthouse in a dead sea.

For one long moment, the Pope of the Church of Peace stood frozen in ecstasy, drinking in the stolen magic.