The voice continued.
But this time, it was closer.
It wasn't coming from the dark sky.
It wasn't whispering from the ruins or the mist.
No.
It was inside his head.
The shard of Sethvyr — it had been with him since the moment the Grand Rite ended. Since the moment the heretic priests completed their forbidden ritual.
And now, it was one with him.
Completely.
"Now then… little one, bearer of the Ruined Blessing," the voice said.
A pause.
Then it continued:
"The water you drank from the sacred chalice — it granted you a gift. The right to manifest miracles."
"But every miracle must be paid for... with sacrifice, or faith."
The boy furrowed his brow slightly. Then, innocently, curiously — he asked:
"I'm hungry. Can I ask for food?"
His voice was soft.
Simple.
Still the voice of a child.
Grrrrrrgle—
His stomach growled loudly, breaking the silence.
Sethvyr smiled, unseen by any mortal eyes. A grin stretching from the void beyond sight.
"Of course, little one."
"But everything has a price."
"Bring me a body — one of the heretic priests, or a Sanctified knight."
"Lay it before the chalice. The exchange will be complete."
Froy did not argue.
He didn't complain.
He simply moved.
He grabbed the nearest corpse — a priest, face caved in, robes still soaked in blood — and began to drag it toward the Calix Nihilum, which now floated a few inches above the scorched earth, humming with a dark, unseen pulse.
His arms were small.
His strength was little.
But he was persistent.
He pulled.
He struggled.
He dragged.
And at last, he laid the offering before the chalice.
He waited.
Silent.
Still.
The voice returned.
"I accept it."
"Eat well… little one."
Then it happened.
Before Froy's eyes — food appeared.
Bread — warm, soft, steaming.
A bowl of broth — rich and fragrant, wafting waves of savory heat.
Sliced meat — red, tender, dripping with juice.
Fruit — plump, vibrant, almost glowing.
Froy wasted no time.
He lunged forward and began to eat like a starving animal.
"Nom nom nom!"
He tore into the bread with both hands, crumbs tumbling down his chin.
He devoured the meat, biting through it with small but eager teeth.
He slurped the soup noisily, "Sluuurp!", not caring how hot it was.
There was no elegance.
No manners.
Only need.
Even if his face showed no emotion, even if his glassy eyes stared blankly ahead, he was still a child.
And children eat when they're hungry.
Before long, the food was gone.
Every crumb.
Every drop.
Froy sat still for a moment — breathing heavily. His strength returned, slowly.
He looked up at the floating chalice. Then bowed his head slightly — a gesture not of formality, but of raw, blind devotion.
And with a voice steady, cold, and filled with twisted faith, he whispered:
"Thank you for the food, Sethvyr."
His belly was full now.
Uncomfortably full — tight and round beneath the tattered cloth of his robe.
He placed a small hand on his stomach, blinking slowly. Then he rose.
No sigh.
No complaint.
Just action.
He began to walk — slowly, unhurriedly — weaving between the corpses strewn across the clearing.
He had eaten.
He had regained his strength.
And now, he would give back.
He grabbed a body by the arm — a Sanctified knight, armor dented and heavy — and began to drag it toward the Calix Nihilum.
Then another.
And another.
After a few trips, his small shoulders sagged slightly.
He muttered under his breath, voice faint, almost playful:
"They're so heavy... I guess they ate well too, just like me."
A tiny, breathless laugh slipped free — but there was no humor in it.
Only the simplicity of a thought spoken aloud.
He didn't want to walk back and forth too many times. So instead, he piled them together — stacking broken bodies atop one another without ceremony or hesitation.
Holy and heretic.
Knight and priest.
It no longer mattered.
They were offerings now.
Nothing more.
When the mound was finished, Froy stepped back. The Calix Nihilum floated silently before the heap, its surface shimmering faintly in the mist.
Froy pressed both hands together in front of his chest, bowed slightly, and murmured:
"For you, Sethvyr."
The chalice pulsed once.
And the bodies vanished — silent, immediate — as if the world had never been stained by their existence.
Froy lowered his hands.
He sat down again, folding his legs neatly beneath him, and gazed at the empty spot where the dead had been.
He didn't smile.
He didn't cry.
He simply waited.
Silent.
Faithful.
Endless.
Then, after a long pause, he tilted his head slightly, his wide, glassy eyes gleaming under the colorless sky. He spoke — half to himself, half to the mist:
"I guess those corpses will make more food."
A small glint danced in his gaze. Without thinking, he licked his lips — a movement as innocent and natural as a child savoring the thought of dessert.
The wind stirred the ash around him.
And Froy sat there, patient and still, ready to serve, ready to devour, whenever the voice called again.
A voice stirred again in Froy's mind, slithering through the hollow spaces between his thoughts:
"It seems we were betrayed by that little girl... and the Pope, too.
Would you like revenge, little one? I can help you."
Sethvyr's tone was almost casual. Almost teasing.
Froy blinked slowly, his small hands resting lightly on his lap.
Then he asked — simple, curious:
"You're a god, right? You must have known all along. Didn't things turn out the way you expected?"
There was a pause.
A ripple in the mist.
Then Sethvyr answered, voice tinged with faint amusement:
"I know everything.
But sometimes, knowing ruins the fun.
And no — I am not a god."
Froy tilted his head slightly, absorbing the words without question.
Then he said, his voice steady, filled with a strange, broken reverence:
"If you wish it, I will do as you command."
Grrrrrrgle—
His stomach growled again, loud in the silence.
The boy added without hesitation, his tone still soft, still polite:
"Of course... if you could also give me more food, I would be very grateful."
The mist around him seemed to shudder — as if the world itself was holding back a laugh.
And somewhere, far beyond mortal sight, Sethvyr's smile widened once more.