The voice of Sethvyr echoed once more in the boy's mind.
"Well now, little one. The church must have at least taught you the basics of this world... before they were wiped out by the Sanctified Church, that is."
It chuckled, a sound like rustling pages in a long-forgotten tome.
"As you know, we're currently within the continent of Umbryss, the darkest and most dangerous of the five. But fortune favors you still... for you are near the border of Ythrene, one of its outermost regions. You must journey to Solmira to grow, to gather knowledge, and to become useful."
There was a pause, then Sethvyr continued.
"You may use your Miracles three times per day. You've already used one. But should your faith remain unwavering... I may intervene even beyond those limits, when desperation leaves you no path."
Froy muttered aloud.
"I've always had faith in you... but how am I supposed to get to Solmira, Sethvyr? Walk barefoot across a continent? Even if it's just the border, I doubt I'd make it alive."
Sethvyr responded with its usual calm.
"Head north through the forest, little one. You will find the answer you seek."
With no further hesitation, Froy walked.
He passed 100 meters. Then a kilometer. Then three.
Finally, the sound of wheels broke through the silent woods. A carriage was coming.
He waved.
The carriage slowed and stopped beside him.
A rugged man stepped down, his build strong and his face severe.
"Lost, kid? Don't you know this region's dangerous? Get in. I'll take you."
Froy blinked.
"I need to get to Solmira."
The man grinned.
"Well then, lucky you. We're headed that way. Hop in."
Froy took a step forward. Then hesitated.
As he walked to the back of the carriage, he noticed it was covered by a curtain. He peeked through.
Inside — rows of chained slaves.
His eyes widened.
He turned to run, but it was too late. The man grabbed him with one powerful arm.
"This one'll fetch a fine price."
The man tied him up with thick rope and tossed him into the cage with the others.
Froy didn't struggle. He could've used a Miracle — but he didn't.
"Well, at least I'm not walking anymore," he thought to himself. "Free ride. Less foot pain."
He leaned back against the cage bars.
Two weeks passed beneath the creaking wheels and blood-colored skies.
In that time, the boy began to grow close to the others — the ones chained beside him, all victims of the same brutal hand.
There was Brumgar, the dwarf, squat and solid, his grizzled beard tangled with dust and old blood. He'd seen much of the world and spoke with a voice like grinding stone. He never smiled, but his eyes softened whenever Froy looked at him.
Then there were the elven sisters — Selene, the elder, poised and serene even in chains, and Aryvael, the younger, who trembled in silence and clung to her sister as if she were the only light left in the world.
And lastly, there was Luma, the beastkin girl, with silver-furred ears and bright, watchful eyes. She radiated a quiet warmth, and her soft-spoken words carried more comfort than any blanket could offer.
Despite the darkness, despite the filth and the fear, a strange sense of companionship began to grow in that prison on wheels.
They didn't ask why Froy never cried.
They didn't ask why he never seemed afraid.
Perhaps they sensed something else in him. Perhaps they simply chose not to question the boy who smiled at horrors with dead eyes.
Every meal was the same — a dry, tasteless bar of meat thrown into the cage by the slavers with all the care of feeding dogs.
One bar. Two, if the slaver was feeling generous or drunk.
No one ever complained aloud. No one dared.
But on one particular evening, as the sky turned a deeper gray and the forest outside hummed with unseen beasts, Froy caught the eye of Selene as she passed her half of the meat bar to her sister — again.
He tilted his head slightly and whispered, "You'll get weaker if you keep doing that."
Selene offered no answer. Only a glance that held both gentleness and warning.
Brumgar grunted. "This world doesn't reward kindness, kid."
Froy simply smiled. A soft, eerie curve of the lips that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I know," he said. "But sometimes... the world forgets to punish it too."
The others stared at him for a moment — not in confusion, but unease.
He wasn't like them.
Not truly.
But for now, they all sat in the same cage.
And the wheels kept turning.
Froy had now known these people for two weeks. They weren't bad — not monsters, not even broken. Just tired. Just shackled.
Each bore a slave brand burned into their flesh, rendering escape impossible.
That night, under a moonless sky, while the slaver snored within his tent, Froy finally acted.
He stood, hands still bound, and whispered with measured calm:
"To Sethvyr, the one and only I revere — grant us a proper feast."
His voice was soft. Clear. And final.
The prayer did not go unheard.
A rift shimmered in the air before him — and from it, stepped a figure cloaked in shadow and starlight.
Calix Nihilum.
The being bowed once, solemn and graceful, and with a snap of its fingers, vanished — leaving behind a full banquet of hot bread, roasted meat, and fruits unknown to any present tongue.
Silence reigned.
Then awe.
Then disbelief.
They stared at Froy.
And for the first time since he'd been thrown into the cage... they believed him.
They devoured the meal with wild hunger — torn between disbelief and desperation, as if afraid it might vanish the moment they blinked. Meat, bread, stewed roots, warm broth — all of it vanished within moments. Their hands shook, their eyes shimmered. Luma even wept silently as she licked her wooden bowl clean.
For the first time in weeks, they felt full. Not just fed — full.
Froy sat quietly among them, sipping from his wooden cup, watching the way their shoulders slumped in relief, how their eyes softened.
They never asked how it had appeared. Not yet.
But they all looked at him now with something different — not fear. Not suspicion.
Curiosity. Wonder. A spark.
The seed has taken root, Froy thought.
He glanced at the carved wooden bowls and the makeshift utensils that hadn't existed before. The Miracle had not just fed them — it had given them dignity. A shared moment of grace in a world that offered none.
In his heart, Froy made a quiet decision.
When we reach our destination, he thought, I'll find a way to free them. One by one, if I must.
He had time — two months left on this accursed journey, give or take. And during that time, he would speak softly. Patiently.
Not with sermons.
Not with threats.
But with honesty, and purity, and something rarer still in this world — kindness.
Until one by one, they would kneel not in chains, but in faith.
The boy was no savior.
He didn't act out of compassion.
He simply saw potential — tools, not comrades. If they could be useful in the future, it was better to keep them alive, fed, and grateful.
It was always better when they owed him.
That was one of the earliest lessons whispered by the Nameless Church:
"Debts are more binding than chains. Kindness given today is loyalty reaped tomorrow."
And so, Froy offered them a miracle — not as a gift, but as an investment.
A calculated blessing wrapped in warmth.