"A child of my blood, to inherit my wealth, my glory, my wisdom."
"A child of my clay, to inherit my present and my future."
He sank to his knees. The ground was hard, unyielding, as if reminding him with every heartbeat that all the power in this world was but a fragile shell. Pain seeped through his flesh despite the finery of his robes, until he felt the very stone mocking his weakness. He raised his hands to the heavens, pleading fervently, his voice trembling with desperation. In all his long years, no prayer had been truer, no desire more profound: a child, born from the womb of his beloved wife.
A sigh slipped from his lips as he lowered his hands, whispering bitterly:
"If the gods had ever heeded my prayers, they would have granted me this child decades ago."
His eyes were dark, as bottomless as twin lakes. His hair was short and black, his brows thick and stern, sharpening the severity of his features. His shoulders were broad, his belly rounded from a life of abundance, a testament that his flesh had never known the lash of hunger. His garments were rich, befitting a noble of the Middle Ages, and his long, thick beard lent him a gravity that weighed upon his every word.
The church around him was drenched in the reverence of ages long gone. Wooden pews lined both sides, and a stone aisle ran between them, adorned with symbols whose meaning only a chosen few might grasp. Its walls were dark and ancient, as if they had devoured the prayers of countless worshippers before him. At its heart rose a stone shrine, crowned with a statue: the body of a lion, the face of a man. Its gaze hovered between mercy and disdain.
Slow, deliberate steps echoed behind him. A hand rested upon his shoulder, and a warm whisper seeped into his ear:
"May the gods hear your plea. But should they answer… will you rejoice in the price demanded?"
The noble turned his head, his movements heavy. Behind him stood a priest clad in flowing black robes, a great sigil emblazoned on his chest: a circle enclosing three stars, at whose center a serpent coiled upon itself, smiling with quiet malice.
The noble struggled to rise, masking his pain as though his pride outweighed his health. He would not allow the stones of the church to bear witness to his frailty. Yet the priest, seasoned by years of deception, was not fooled. A faint smile curved his lips as he murmured:
"Even the hardest rock splits under rain. How much less the heart of man?"
Clasping his hands behind his back, the priest advanced toward the statue. His voice carried across the church, reverberating as though the walls themselves sought to reshape his words:
"They say it was the divine who decreed this floor be laid with stone, that every knee which touched it might remember: it is but fleeting. To kneel here is to admit that your strength weighs nothing before He who measures the world with a word."
The noble's lips twisted into a strained smile. From within his cloak, he drew four golden coins engraved with the faces of lions. Their glow flickered beneath the wavering light of the candles. Extending his hand, he let them glint upon his palm:
"This servant knows his station… but tell me, does the god know mine?"
The priest's gaze lifted slowly, then drifted from the statue as though too weary to meet its eyes. His voice, hoarse and low, sounded more like a man speaking to himself than to the noble:
"The god need not know you… it is enough that you do not know yourself."
His hand stretched out languidly, fingers closing around the coins as if weighing their burden. His voice dropped, tinged with pity, shadowed with secrets:
"But this priest… will pray for you. Perhaps he can persuade the gods to forgive your sins, to overlook your trespasses, to grant what your heart craves."
The noble bowed deeply before the statue, until his brow nearly kissed the stone floor. From afar, one might think he knelt not to the divine… but to the priest who loomed above him.
He departed the church with steps that resounded heavily against the stone. Outside, a carriage awaited—black and stately, drawn by horses that moved in silence, as though they knew the weight their master carried more than he himself.
The courtyard paving stones bore cracks where withered weeds fought for life. Sparse trees dotted the distance, silent sentinels watching over the mountain. The church stood like a shadow of forgotten ages, perched upon the heights of Kranthorp, overlooking a valley no map dared name. Few could reach it save those summoned… or those who wandered astray.
Within, as the noble's presence faded into silence, the priest's eyes gleamed gold beneath the candlelight. His long hair spilled down his shoulders as he gazed at the coins with greedy ease. His whisper slithered through the chamber, a secret none but the stones would hear:
"How easily the fools are deceived… by silent gods, gods that exist only in their fear. It is simple to sell them illusions, to feast upon their faith… while they believe they are buying salvation."
He glanced toward the statue, its stone gaze unreadable, and murmured as he slipped the coins into his hidden pocket:
"Salvation… does it even exist in this world?"
He turned, making for his chamber, but the sound of wheels upon stone reached his ear. Another carriage had come to rest at the distant gate. A pale smile touched his lips, weary and unbothered. He muttered softly:
"Another guest… and with him, another sack of gold."
This was no ordinary church. Raised among the mountains of Kranthorp, it stood like a phantom of the first age. Forgotten by priests, abandoned by kings, its name dared not be spoken.
Until a priest appeared—mysterious, enigmatic. Rumors whispered that an ancient god, known only as the Howl, had spoken to him, laying bare the hidden desires of men. From that day forth, he became a broker of divine will—or at least, the illusion of it. And thus the forsaken church became a hidden sanctuary, sought only by those burdened with gold… or with guilt.
The carriage halted before the gate. The heavy steps of horses faded into silence, replaced by the tread of human feet, slow and deliberate, drawing nearer with every breath.
The priest lifted his head, golden light flashing across his eyes. A question lingered in his heart: a familiar supplicant? Or a new face to weave into his web of lies?
But before the ancient doors could open, a voice rang out. It came from far away, yet it filled every corner of the church, sharp as steel, piercing as truth:
"Across every land and shadowed corner, men are deceived by those who claim to speak for silent gods. They beg for power from beyond, hoping to be lifted from their mire… yet what they purchase is illusion. And what they abandon… is truth."
A silence fell, heavy and breathless. Then the voice deepened, resonant, undeniable:
"Truth… is the only god worthy of worship."
The priest's body quivered uncontrollably. A chill flooded his veins like ice seeping through his marrow. His hands clenched together in vain, betraying his trembling. His voice broke in a mixture of terror and fury:
"W-Who are you?!"
The church resounded with laughter—low, endless, like the roar of a thousand demons. It dwindled into a hiss, a serpentine whisper coiling through the air:
"Like you… one who walks the path.
One of The Pathbound."
The priest's eyes widened in horror. Was this a threat? Or a revelation of his own forbidden identity? He had no time to ponder. The church doors burst inward with a thunderous crash. Dust and shadow spilled into the hall, veiling the figure that entered. The hinges shrieked as the doors closed again, sealing the outside world away.
And within the silence, the unseen presence stepped forward.
.......................
In the kingdom of Valentrea, where seas kissed mountains and countless cities thrived, there lay a province forgotten by crowns and priests alike. Within it stood the stone-born city of Kranthorp, carved from mountains and mines, as though the earth itself had birthed it.
Above it blazed the sun—golden to the nobles, scorching to the miners who toiled beneath its glare. Its streets were jagged, stony veins that remembered the cold of night even beneath the heat of day, a city that belonged more to the mountain than to man.
It was the thirteenth of March, in the year five hundred of the Common Era. A day unremarkable to all… save one sixteen-year-old boy.
The news had spread like wildfire: his father's corpse had been found in the river.
Bank ran, lungs burning, heart pounding like war-drums. He longed to call it falsehood, to see for himself. But what awaited him shattered that fragile hope: his father's lifeless body, washed to shore by the current.
Confusion warred with grief. His father, who had always cursed the gods, had become a priest overnight—and now lay murdered, discarded into the water.
Who stood to gain from his death?
Bank stood frozen, his fist clenched, his gaze locked upon the corpse. He thought sorrow would consume him, that despair would tear at his heart… yet he felt nothing. No pain. No fear. Not even tears.
"Am I human… or a monster without feeling?" he whispered, his voice hollow.
But all eyes were fixed on him—the boy who had named himself a monster, whose gaze had not wavered once.
In this world there were monsters, and there were heroes.
But Bank was neither.
He was only a child, staring at the corpse of his father. A wound that would never heal, but would haunt and shape him forever.
The day dragged on. He buried his father. He clung to his mother. His elder sister held the infant in her arms. In a single breath, he became the man of the house—the one to shield them, the one to provide.
But how could a child protect his family, when he could not protect himself?
He watched the grave being sealed with earth. He watched his mother questioned by guards about the murder. And he felt… nothing. Death was everywhere in that age. No one cared.
So why should this time be different?
Lives were cheaper than garbage.
If, indeed, men had lives at all.
When the last trace of his father vanished beneath the soil, Bank took his mother's hand.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice steady, "I will go to the mines. I will work."
Not far away, atop a hill, a man clad in armor observed the scene.
A second figure leaned close, whispering:
"Was it truly necessary to kill him?"
The armored man smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the mourners below. His reply was calm, resolute:
"Any who sow illusion among men… must die.
There is no forgiveness."