Morning came slowly, filtered through thick gray clouds that hung over Glintmere like a shroud.
A strange silence blanketed the village, heavier than before. It wasn't the somber silence of mourning, nor the wary hush of caution.
No...it was something more instinctual.
It was fear.
By noon, word had spread: the merchant and his entire entourage were gone.
Not just departed.
Gone.
Their wagon, their supplies, the bodies of the two guards...every trace had been reduced to ash.
A pile of soot and melted metal lay in the ruins of the estate, still warm to the touch.
No one had seen them leave. No cart wheels had grooved the roads. No horses neighing, no footsteps.
Just blackness, soot, and the faint stench of burnt flesh lingering like a ghost over the edge of the village.
People gathered around the site in small, whispering clusters. Their voices were hushed, reverent, and filled with a mixture of dread and awe.
"The gods took 'em," one whispered.
"They were punished," said another. "For accusing that boy."
"No, no. It wasn't the gods," an old crone muttered, clutching a charm around her neck. "Something else walks here now. Something older."
Cain stood near the edge of the crowd, wrapped in his tattered cloak. His head was bowed, but not in mourning. He was listening. He was watching. Letting the narrative weave itself around him like silk.
No one questioned him directly. Not yet. He had become the unspoken symbol of something mysterious: a miracle to some, a warning to others.
But at home, away from the crowd and their half-believed legends, there was no mistaking the truth.
Inside their home, the hearth was lit, the scent of boiling herbs hanging thick in the air.
Angus Vox moved about the space with purposeful slowness, gathering mugs, adding sprigs of dried leaf to the steeping pot.
Cain sat at the table, hands folded, his posture relaxed but alert.
Angus placed a steaming mug in front of him and took the seat across with a quiet sigh.
"Cain," he said, voice low, roughened by fatigue and something deeper. "I need you to tell me what happened."
Cain met his eyes and held them.
There was no evasion in his gaze, but neither was there full honesty. He had learned long ago that truth was a blade. And wielded carelessly, it could wound the wrong hearts.
So he didn't tell him the truth... at least not all of it.
Not that the son he once held in his arms had died, his soul shattered beneath falling stones and winds sharpened into death.
Not that the thing sitting across from him now was a man who had lived two lives, born in another world, walking the razor's edge between vengeance and annihilation.
He couldn't say that.
So he chose a different story.
"I don't know how to explain it," Cain said at last. "When I woke... I felt something. Something immense. Like... voices, but not words. Just emotion. Purpose."
Angus listened, tense, eyes fixed.
"It was like they... reached into me. The gods. As if they lifted me from the brink. And when I saw you, when I saw the fear in your eyes the other night, it came back. That feeling. Stronger. Like... a call. Like they were urging me to act."
He let his voice tremble, just slightly. Let the weight of awe, reverence, and fear twist into every syllable.
The entire act came easy to him, he had seen far too many priests do it before and pretending was simple to him at this point.
"And the fire?" Angus asked, his voice tight.
Cain nodded slowly. "It wasn't something I learned. It just... was. Like breathing. As if the gods themselves pushed it through my veins. I didn't want to use it, but I couldn't stop it. I felt you were in danger. And they... they gave me the power to protect you."
Angus looked down, his hands clenched on the mug. He didn't speak for a long while.
Then, softly, he said, "You think the gods gave you that power?"
Cain didn't hesitate. "Maybe. Or maybe they're using me. Either way... I can feel it. Their eyes. Their will."
He leaned forward slightly. "But I don't care why they're doing it. If they want to use me, then I'll use them right back. I'll play their game. Wear their mask. And when the time comes, I'll turn their own tools against them."
Angus frowned. "You speak of using the gods like it's a game, Cain. That's dangerous talk."
Cain chuckled, but there was no joy in it.
"Isn't that what they've done to us for centuries?" Cain said, his true thoughts slipping for the first time. "Use us? Shape us? Judge us? They made this world, gave it beasts that kill children and monsters with divine blood, then ask for prayers when it all falls apart."
His hands tightened into fists.
"If they want worship, let them earn it. Let them see what it means when the prey bites back."
Angus was silent, visibly troubled.
Yet within his aged eyes, something stirred: an unspoken understanding.
He had lived a life of devotion, failed to earn a god's blessing, and now watched his son become something outside the bounds of faith and ritual.
Something terrifying. Something magnificent.
Cain softened his voice.
"I know this scares you. But I promise you this...whatever I become, I won't become your enemy. Not yours."
Angus looked up slowly and nodded.
"You saved me, Cain. You saved all of us. If that fire was divine or something else... I don't care. You're still my son."
Cain smiled faintly.
'If only he knew.'
But he would protect that belief. Let the man keep his hope.
Outside, the rumors continued. The villagers told stories of fire and gods, vengeance and miracles. Cain let them believe. Let them worship. Let them spread the legend.
If the gods ruled by fear and faith... then he would twist both.
He would become their weapon, their terror, their proof.
And one day, when they looked down from their lofty thrones, they would see his face...
...and know regret.