The horns pierced the air at dawn.
Three long, mournful blasts, like the cry of something old dying in the snow.
Kael snapped awake before the third horn, his breath sharp in the cold. His body moved before his thought: boots half-laced, cloak grabbed from its hook, fingers slipping slightly from the night sweat that still clung to his skin. He sensed trouble.
Outside, the air bit like knives.
The village had already begun to gather. Dozens of shapes moved slowly across the frostbitten ground, their steps sluggish and deliberate, as if walking to their own funerals. The bell hadn't rung. It didn't need to.
Kael blended into the back of the crowd, the crunch of his boots muted beneath the shuffle of so many feet. Smoke curled from a few scattered huts, and the scent of ash mingled with the chill—faint, but metallic. Like old blood.
They stood in the village square, arranged in rows, their heads bowed, their eyes cast to frozen dirt. No one spoke. No one dared. They were dressed in their best rags—tunics recently mended, cloaks patched at the shoulder or hem. Some wore family tokens: crude wooden beads, worn iron pendants, a stitched ribbon of mourning. All of it trembling in the wind.
Children stood among them. Some clutched their mothers' hands; others nestled beside older siblings. Their faces were pale, so were the young adults.
Kael felt it in his gut. This wasn't the first time. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
From the temple steps, Lodia looked out over the crowd. Her eyes swept the square and paused when she found him. For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Then her lips parted—almost a whisper, a question.
But she didn't speak. Her gaze dropped. Her shoulders stiffened, and she turned away.
The center of the square had been cleared. Snow shoveled apart. Stones swept. And there, resting atop a raised pedestal of dark granite, sat the sigil.
Chalk-red. Freshly drawn. Angry spirals carved into a five-pointed wheel, enclosed by sun-beam lines that extended outward like the rays of a divine eye.
Kael knew it at once. The Tribute Seal. The Divine Claim Ritual.
Once, it had been rare—reserved for times of war, when divine favor was needed at great cost. Or as punishment when a village had dared defiance. Now, it was routine. Normalized. A sacrament by decree.
Three riders approached from the edge of the frost fields, their pale horses cloaked in white silk that dragged across the frozen ground like burial shrouds. Their hooves made no sound. Snow parted before them, as though the world itself had been taught to kneel.
Leading them was a figure draped in violet.
The robes shimmered slightly, trimmed with bands of silver that pulsed faintly like living veins. Over his face he wore a polished silver mask: serene, expressionless, molded into the likeness of a tranquil god—eyes closed, lips faintly curved.
The Seer of Aureon.
Even from a distance, Kael felt the divine aura radiating from him—thick, invisible pressure, like steam against the skin. It didn't burn, not exactly. It suffocated without touch, a reminder of the presence of something greater—the gods, not as saviors, but as sovereigns.
The crowd began to kneel.
First kneel down, then the rest followed like a wave—slow and silent, like grain bending in the wind. No words. No orders. Just instinct shaped by fear. Their eyes lowered to the dirt. Children ushered downward in fear.
Kael remained standing. No one noticed. Not yet.
The Seer dismounted without a word. His assistants—two pale-robed clerics—descended from their steeds and unfolded a scroll taller than either of them. One stepped forward, his voice high and sharp as a blade.
"As decreed by the Law of Radiance, upheld in the name of High Aureon, Lord of Sky and Flame, this village within the bounds of the Venerant North shall yield its due: three children, aged twelve or younger, of unbroken blood."
A ripple moved through the crowd. Not gasps—those had long been beaten out of them. Just a tightening of shoulders. The quiet, strangled sounds of despair forced through closed teeth.
A woman clutched her child tighter. Another man groaned quietly, pressing his forehead deeper into the dirt. A few eyes flicked upward—guilt written in their glances.
The third priest produced a smaller token—an orb of polished crystal mounted in bronze. It pulsed once, faintly, like a heart.
The Marking Stone.
Once a child's hand touched it, the priesthood would know if they were pure. If their blood was "unbroken." If they were acceptable.
Kael's hands curled into fists, his knuckles cracking softly. This wasn't justice. This wasn't judgment.
And the villagers— they moved in accordance. Slowly. Mechanically.
A woman staggered forward, cradling a weeping girl. Her knees shook. Another dragged a boy by the arm, his feet stumbling, his face blank. She murmured something to the seer—prayers, maybe. Maybe lies.
The third child came on his own. No protest. No tears. Just a quiet, hollow march to the center of the square. He had a slight resemblance to Lodia.
Kael stared. The children knelt. The priests waited.
Then the Seer raised a hand. And Kael stepped forward with fire in his blood.
"Is this what faith means now?" His voice cut the silence, soft but sharp as flint.
All heads turned to him. Even the Seer stilled his movement.
Kael kept walking. Past the kneeling forms. Past the priests, whose mouths began to twitch with confusion.
"You give your children to the gods like livestock. And call it righteous."
A hiss moved through the crowd—shock, disbelief, terror. But no one spoke. The Seer turned, mask tilting slightly, head cocked. His voice came calm. Almost amused.
"You are not marked as elder. Nor priest. Nor emissary," the Seer said calmly, his silver mask tilting ever so slightly, his voice echoing like wind through cathedral stone.
The seer expected silence in return. Instead, the cloaked figure before him stepped forward.
Kael smiled—a bitter curl of the mouth beneath his hood. "I am marked."
His voice was low, steady. Not defiant. Not proud. Just unavoidable. He raised his arm, his cloak parting as his hand pulled back the worn sleeve.
The crowd gasped as the firesticks light revealed it: a burn, rough-edged and raw, shaped like a fractured ring of flame coiling around his forearm. It wasn't natural nor accidental.
A mark of something forbidden. Forgotten. Godbane.
"Marked by flame," Kael added.
He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the Seer.
"By blood."
Another step. The pressure in the air thickened.
"And by betrayal."
The divine aura that radiated from the Seer intensified, compressing the square like the weight of a buried tomb. Snow crunched as the villagers' faces fell to the ground—some clutching their heads, others gasping for breath. A few began to weep without understanding why.
One old man collapsed completely, a rasping groan escaping his chest before he hit the ground.
The terrifying aura of one blessed by the divine.
The Seer raised a hand. A gesture that would normally silence crowds. Crush defiance. End resistance before it began.
Kael didn't flinch. Instead, he whispered a single word. A forbidden tongue. Spoken in a language the gods themselves had tried to erase from the world.
And the fire answered.
The scroll in the priest's hands erupted—a burst of crimson flame engulfing it from within. The parchment curled and blackened in an instant. The priest cried out, staggering back, his hands blistered, remnants of the divine decree falling like snow.
The crowd gasped again. But Kael already moved. The Seer turned—too slow.
Kael's fist struck upward with devastating clarity. No hidden weapon. Not even with a warrior's technique.
Just a single, burning blow—his knuckles shrouded in living flame, wrapped in Godbane will, the ancient power drawn from forbidden rites and fury-fueled memory.
His fist collided with the Seer's mask. A sharp, ringing note split the air, followed by a heavier sound of metal clattering against stone.
It cracked. The silver mask flew, spinning through the air before landing in the snow, face-down.
A collective cry rippled from the crowd—but no one moved. No one dared.
The Seer stumbled backward, one hand to his face. Blood flowed beneath his nose, trickling over his pale skin, rubbing against the violet of his robes.
Kael advanced, slowly. The Seer's uncovered eyes widened. His pupils—gold-ringed, blessed with divine sight—narrowed, locked on the face beneath the hood.
It wasn't just any rebel. Not just any man defying the gods. There was raw ancient power in the soul walking boldly towards him.
And that familiar face. He had seen it before. Young, soft, timid face.
In this village, days back. A boy among the census. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. Strong-willed in a way that drew his attention. He had passed this boy once in a ritual line, felt a strange resonance in his presence.
Tarin. That was the name. He was of no noble blood. Not highborn. Just a village boy.
But something in him had stirred the Seer's curiosity, briefly. Something raw, untamed. Dangerous, perhaps. Divine in a way that made the Seer hesitate—just for a moment—before picking him for the last tribute offering.
The memory struck him now, like cold water. It was impossible. That boy should have been—
Dead.
Drained completely of his blood, Consumed by the fire.
But the boy stood alive before him, eyes blazing with a fury far older than this village, far deeper than revenge.
The Seer staggered again—from the slow, chilling weight of recognition.
Kael leaned in close. His voice dropped to a whisper, heard only by the Seer, his breath hot and heavy with intent.
"Tell Aureon I remember."
The words struck harder than any blow. Kael turned, his cloak shifting, the firesticks light catching the edge of his jaw.
Then louder, to the crowd:
"No more children will be taken. Not while I breathe."
His voice echoed across the square—sharp, clear, and final.
The villagers didn't move. They couldn't. Not out of fear. Out of disbelief.
The Seer remained standing—maskless, bloodied, and silent. He made no move to pursue. Just a stunned, frozen expression.
Because now he knew. This Heretic wasn't just an upstart with power. He was a ghost of the past—one that had risen in fire.
The clerics leapt to their feet, mounted their horses, and fled—panic in their reins, hooves tearing small dents through the frost. The Seer followed shortly, no words leaving his lips.
The villagers remained frozen. Staring. Some stared at Kael. Some at the fallen mask. Some just stared at the children, still kneeling.
Kael stepped between them. Gently placed a hand on the brave boy's shoulder.
"You're free," he whispered. He blinked. Slowly rose. Then the others followed.
Later, they would say the wind changed that day. That the sun, though hidden behind clouds, seemed to burn red for a moment. That a warmth touched their bones that hadn't been felt since before the gods walked amongst them.
Kael stood alone in the square, his cloak fluttering behind him, flames still curling faintly around his knuckles.
For the first time in generations…Someone had said no to the gods.
And lived.