Froy stepped into the tavern.
The place was larger than it appeared from outside — wide, warm, and filled with noise. The scent of smoke, ale, sweat, and something faintly sweet clung to the air like a second skin.
No one told him what to do. No one pointed. No guiding hand.
So he observed.
And then he moved.
The boy walked toward the front counter with quiet purpose, picked up the inked quill, and began jotting down names. Guests passed by in waves — cloaked men, painted women, traveling merchants with greedy eyes. Some gave him coin. Others, just sneers.
Most didn't take him seriously.
"Who left a brat behind the desk?" one drunk slurred.
Another leaned too close, breath sharp with rot. "You even old enough to know what we do here, kid?"
Froy didn't flinch. He smiled politely. Wrote their names. Remembered their faces.
By midday, his fingers ached. By evening, his feet burned. By nightfall, he had cleaned two rooms, hauled crates into the cellar, and broken up a fight between two guests who both swore they'd reserved the same room.
All while being called boy. Rat. Doll. Pet.
But he never raised his voice. Never showed his anger. Never let the fire slip past his eyes.
He was learning.
One insult at a time.
The Visitors of Midnight
The sun dipped below the hills, casting the town in rust and shadow.
Inside the House, the lights dimmed. Not because of sleep — but because the night crowd was different.
More refined. More dangerous.
Froy was wiping down the counter when the door opened without a sound.
Three men entered. Not loud. Not smiling. Their cloaks were plain, but their boots were polished, their gestures restrained, and their eyes... too quiet.
The rest of the tavern seemed to shift around them — laughter died. No one made eye contact. Even the working women looked away.
Froy glanced up.
One of them — the youngest — approached. His skin was pale, his hair short and dark. But what caught Froy's attention was the ring on his finger: A serpent devouring its own tail. A royal seal.
Froy bowed his head slightly."Welcome, honored guests. May I have your names for the record?"
The young man tilted his head."You're new."
"Yes, sir."
"You have sharp eyes for a child."
"I do my best."
There was a pause. Then the man whispered:"Forget you saw us."
Froy smiled softly."Of course."
He wrote nothing.
The man lingered. His fingers brushed the ledger, then drifted to the knife on his belt — casual, like scratching an itch."But if I find even a shadow of our presence recorded…"
"You won't," Froy interrupted gently."And if you ever come again, I'll remember your face."
The air hung still. Then the man laughed once — short and dry."Sharp, indeed."
They passed into the back rooms. The kind with reinforced doors and spell-locked handles.
A moment later, Madame Lys stepped silently beside Froy, her eyes tracing the closed door.
"Royal snakes slithering into our den," she murmured, voice like velvet draped over steel."What a charming night."
"Do they come often?" Froy asked.
"Not often," she replied."But always when something's about to bleed."
She glanced at the untouched ledger, then at him."You didn't write their names."
"I remembered their faces."
Her lips curled into a faint, unreadable smile."Good. Paper can burn. Eyes, however… endure."
She turned, her cloak sweeping behind her like smoke. Then paused.
"Oh, and Froy," she added without looking back,"the night's not done. There's a new task for you."
Froy looked up."What kind?"
Her eyes found his — calm, cold, and faintly amused."The kind where smiling gets you hurt, and asking the wrong question gets you killed."
And she was gone.
Missteps and Masks
Later that evening, Froy was sent to clean a guest room on the upper floor. Madame Lys had said Room 12 — but when he reached the door, the brass number read 17.
He hesitated. Then knocked once. No answer.
The door was unlocked.
Inside: voices.
Soft. Steady. Strange.
He pushed the door open a little — just enough to peek in.
And froze.
Three figures stood within. Clad in red robes. Faces hidden behind pale masks.
Except one.
One had just removed her mask.
And what he saw stopped his breath.
A girl — no older than him, perhaps younger — with long, golden-blonde hair that shimmered like trapped sunlight. Her emerald eyes shimmered with impossible clarity. Skin pale as moonlight. Too perfect. Too regal.
Like royalty.
Then she looked at him.
And so did the others.
"Who—"
A hand shot forward. A spell began to shimmer—
But just before it hit—
A burst of violet light shattered the air.
And Madame Lys stepped between them like a falling blade.
"Enough," she said, tone cold and final.
The spell fizzled.
The masked woman who'd raised her hand lowered it, grudgingly.
Madame Lys didn't face them. She looked only at Froy.
"I told you to clean Room 12. Not 17."
Froy blinked."It said 12. I mean… the number—"
"The numbers were swapped this morning. We rotate plaques on weekends. You started today. You didn't know."
She exhaled."My fault."
Then turned to the robed figures behind her.
"This boy serves the House. Not the Crown. Not the Court. Let him go."
The girl with golden hair held Froy's gaze for a moment longer… then slowly smiled.
A soft, knowing smile.
"I see," she said. "Then I'll remember him."
Froy didn't understand.
Not yet.
Madame Lys gestured toward the hallway."Go. Now."
Froy bowed and left.
But something in his chest told him—
This wasn't the last time he'd see her.
After Madame Lys gave him leave to rest, Froy made his way to the room she had prepared for him.
The hallway was quiet, lit only by the flickering glow of a distant candle. His footsteps were light, but his mind sharp — still echoing with the strange whispers of the night.
When he reached the door… he stopped.
It was slightly ajar.
Not wide. Just enough to unsettle.Just enough to warn.
Froy didn't tense. He didn't call out.
He smiled faintly — calm, collected — and whispered in his heart:
"Let no weapon in this world harm me."
His first miracle. Invoked.
There was no sound. No light. No chant.Just a shift in the world. A stillness.As if the blade of fate itself had been dulled… just for him.
Then, with a steady hand, he pushed the door open.
The room was dimly lit — only a lone candlestick flickering near the bed, casting long shadows across the walls. At first, it looked empty.
Then it came.
A blur of movement, swift and silent, burst from the darkness. Too fast for even Froy's sharpened eyes to follow. So he did the only thing he could:
He collapsed.
Let his body fall limp to the floor. Heart steady. Breath slow. Playing dead.
Metal sang in the dark.
A sword — drawn, then sheathed.
"Your blade is still as sharp as ever, Captain," one voice said, hushed with admiration. "I didn't even see it move."
"Poor kid," another muttered. "Shouldn't have looked the princess in the eyes."
"Will Madame Lys be angry?" a third voice asked. "We just killed one of her workers."
"She'll never know," the captain replied. "Right now she's doing business with the princess. Let's go report to the steward."
Froy listened as they slipped away into the shadows.
Silence returned.
Then he moved.
He sat up slowly, brushing dust off his cloak. Not a single cut marked his skin.
"Came right out of the shadows," he muttered. "Impressive."
He looked around the room.
"Still no pillow or blanket though," he added with a sigh.
And with that, the boy who had just escaped death… lay down, arms folded behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep would come eventually.
But not trust.
Never again.
Froy sat at the edge of the old bed. The candlelight flickered gently, casting broken shadows across the walls. The mattress beneath him creaked — stiff and cold — and carried the faint scent of perfume long faded.
He had just escaped death. A sword stroke meant to end him. A perfect assassination — clean, silent, precise.
And yet, he didn't look shaken.
He looked… entertained.
Leaning back against the wooden frame, Froy exhaled and whispered silently to himself:
"Let those who tried to kill me tonight… suffer misfortune beyond imagination."
His second miracle. Used.
Then he snapped his fingers.
Boom.
A distant explosion rumbled from beneath the southern district of the city. Far below ground, something erupted — something no one expected. Even from here, he could hear the ripple of panic: Shouts. Screams. Metal boots clashing against stone.
Froy grinned.
"Sweet dreams… and goodbye."
He stretched across the stiff mattress, shifted once to find comfort — not that it helped.
But he wasn't done.
With half-lidded eyes, he murmured again:
"Let it rain… all across Solmira."
His third miracle. Used.
Above the sleeping continent, clouds began to gather. Not just over the city. The entire land of Solmira — from coast to mountain — was swallowed by dark skies.
And then, the rain came.
Heavy. Cold. Constant. No thunder. No lightning. Only silence and water.
Rain that drowned the streets. Rain that wiped away footprints. Rain that washed clean every trace of sin — or buried it deeper.
Froy closed his eyes, smiling faintly to himself.
"This… is much better."
His voice faded into a sleepy whisper:
"Though… if the city burns now, what will they do?"
And with that, he drifted into slumber.
Into the quiet. Into the dark. And into the waiting arms of Sethvyr.
[Froy's Miracle Power — Blessing of Sethvyr]
Limit: Three Miracles per DayFroy can invoke up to three miracles each day. No more. No less.They cannot be stored or delayed.Once the sun rises again, unused miracles are lost, and the effects of all miracles reset.
Duration: One Day OnlyEach miracle's influence lasts only for the day it is cast.When morning comes, its effects fade completely — as if the world forgets.
Miracles cannot kill directly. But they can:– Twist weather and fortune,– Bind one thing to another — object, soul, or fate,– Disturb perception or fragment memory and more.No blade appears, but the world itself turns hostile.
Irreversible Cost — Humanity LostEvery use carves away a piece of Froy's soul.– His smile fades faster.– His warmth becomes harder to recall.– He still feels… but each time, less.And what remains begins to bend.Toward Sethvyr.Toward something inhuman.