The morning sun rose gently over Solmira, casting golden light across wet rooftops and rain-slicked streets. Birds chirped as if nothing had happened, as if the continent hadn't groaned in pain just hours before.
Inside a small, candle-lit room, Froy stirred.
The boy yawned, stretched his arms, and blinked at the soft, overcast glow filtering through the window. He sat up on the stiff bed, hair messy, eyes half-lidded, but his expression calm—far too calm for someone who had barely escaped death.
He dressed simply and stepped outside, walking down a short path behind the House to a quiet stream. The cold water stung, but he washed quickly, splashing his face and arms, watching the ripples vanish into mist.
By the time he returned, the House was already alive.
Laughter. Footsteps. Whispered rumors.
Froy took his place at the front counter again. Same stool. Same ledger. Same worn quill.
He dipped it in ink just as two merchants passed by, still wet from the rain.
"Did you hear? There was an explosion under the southern block. Half the foundation collapsed."
"I heard the royal envoy was there… and the Princess too."
"And she would've died—if not for her maid throwing herself in the way."
"Lys must be furious. This is her district."
Froy didn't look up. He just wrote the names.
But he listened.
Every word.
As he ate his breakfast quietly—a bowl of warm soup and half a stale piece of bread—his eyes remained steady.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Because he already knew the truth:
The world had begun to shift.
And he was the one who made it move.
The day moved on.
Froy met countless customers—nobles in disguise, drunk soldiers, whispering informants, traveling magicians, and even a few priests who pretended not to recognize him. Each one brought with them trouble in their tone or venom in their gaze.
But the boy never faltered.
His words? Smooth as silk. Sharp as a blade.
"Of course, sir. Right away." "Would you prefer something warmer? Or sweeter?" "I understand completely. I would feel the same, in your place."
They came angry. They left calm.
A few even smiled. And none of them knew why.
It wasn't just the boy's voice. It was the way he listened. The way he tilted his head, just slightly. The way his bright, innocent face made even cruel men feel… unsure.
Who could hate such a child?
By sunset, his shift ended.
He stepped out into the busy streets, his hands in his pockets, coins jingling softly. Eight silver pieces—not bad for one day. Enough for bread, dried meat, a bit of fruit, and something sweet if he wished.
As he strolled through the market, something caught his eye.
A group of children. Thin. Barefoot. Eyes dull from hunger.
Beggar-kin.
Froy paused.
Then smiled.
He knelt beside them, unwrapped a few meat buns he'd just bought, and handed them out one by one.
"Eat slowly," he said, voice gentle. "It's better warm."
The children stared at him. One of them — a girl with tangled hair — whispered, "Why… are you giving this to us?"
Froy tilted his head, still smiling.
"Because I'm kind," he said.
And no one knew if he meant it.
Because behind that warmth… something else stirred.
Something calculating.
"Hey… where's the slum?" Froy asked.
The children blinked, confused at first, then pointed down a narrow alley. "It's this way…" one of them muttered, before leading him.
The slums were darker, rougher—a mess of rotting wood, cloth tents, and uneven mud paths. Sickly faces peeked from broken windows. The stench of mold and suffering hung thick in the air.
The children looked around nervously, unsure why he had come here.
Froy, however, wasn't nervous at all.
In a quiet, shadowed corner of the slum, he stood before nearly twenty children. Some of them were younger than him, many older. All of them hungry, sick, forgotten.
The boy raised one hand, calm and composed.
And he invoked his first miracle of the day.
Food.
A full feast appeared before them—piping hot and balanced, fresh meat, fruits, vegetables, rice, milk, and sweets. The scent filled the air, and the children rushed forward.
For the first time in their lives, they ate like kings.
Some of them ate through tears — not from pain, but from the unfamiliar feeling of being full. One boy, barely able to lift the bowl at first, whispered, "It smells like home…" before shoving it into his mouth as if it might vanish.
Froy smiled faintly.
"Hungry?" he asked softly. "I can help with that."
Then he stepped forward again.
"And if you're hurting…"
The second miracle.
Wounds sealed. Rashes faded. Bones strengthened. Blind eyes blinked open. One by one, the children felt their pain melt away, replaced by warmth and clarity.
Then the crying began again.
But this time, it was deeper.
Because they knew what kind of sickness they had.
It wasn't something food or sleep could cure.
It was a plague — silent, cruel, and incurable. Most of them had been told they'd die within the year. Some, within the month.
Even if there was a cure, they could never afford it.
Yet now… it was gone.
And they didn't know why.
Or how.
Only that it came from him.
But Froy wasn't finished.
He looked at them all… and with no hesitation, he invoked his third miracle.
No lightning. No fire.
Just a quiet ripple of intent.
He reached into their minds and planted tiny echoes of familiarity. Fragments of memory. The subtle emotional imprint of safety, of faith, of kinship—tied to his presence. Nothing overwhelming. Just enough to guide them closer to him.
To make them feel like he belonged to them.
Or more dangerously… that they belonged to him.
Froy exhaled softly.
He looked over them again.
"You'll need names," he said simply. "Let's keep it easy."
He pointed to each child one at a time.
"One. Two. Three. Four…"
By the time he reached Eighteen, the rain had started again, falling softly over the ruined rooftops.
And in that moment, in that muddy corner of the world—
The path of the Prophet of Ruin began to open.
Quietly.
Inevitably.
Froy stood quietly, watching the dirt-streaked faces of the slum children—faces still wet with tears and broth.
He spoke softly, his voice gentle… yet strange.
"Do you know? Sethvyr is a god of true mercy. And that… is why fate brought us together."
None of the children replied.
They had heard of gods, yes.
But no one had ever taught them their names.
No one had ever shown them what a god could do.
Until now.
Until him.
Froy.
He wasn't light.
He wasn't hope.
But he saw them.
And for children forgotten by the world, that was enough.
Enough to plant faith—quietly, slowly, dangerously.
As the rain began to fade, the boy turned away, stepping back into the alleys and streets.
His footsteps sank into the mud, vanishing like whispers behind him.
He returned to the tavern.
To rest.
To sleep.
And to let something new grow in the silence he left behind.