The village at the edge of Umbryss was small, battered by time and shrouded in mist, but somehow still alive.
After Froy's birth, Don and Livia decided to halt their endless travels.
They needed a home — or at least, a shelter long enough for a fragile new life to grow stronger.
Thus, they stayed. Among cracked cobblestone paths, crooked fences, and faces too tired to smile.
Each day was a mirror of the last.
Don and Livia set up their wares in the modest town square, haggling with the villagers for grains, cloth, or whatever scraps could be spared.
Lucien and Amelia, too young to care for coin, spent most days laughing with the local children.
At night, they would gather by the worn hearth, hands clasped together, and whisper prayers to Mercarius — the God of Trade and Fortune.
Life repeated itself, day after day,
until the repetitions began to crack.
At first, it was minor things.
A cartwheel shattering without reason.
Crops rotting overnight despite clear skies.
Coins vanishing from locked chests.
Neighbors falling into fits of fever, then rising the next morning without memory of their suffering.
Small things. Laughable things.
Things that could be blamed on bad luck, or the dreary nature of Umbryss itself.
And yet...
Each prayer they whispered seemed to echo fainter.
Each night, the fire burned a little colder.
Each dream felt heavier, as if something unseen had begun to watch.
Froy, too young to speak yet, sometimes stared into the corners of their cottage — as if something whispered to him from the shadows.
"It's nothing," Don would say, forcing a laugh.
"Just the nature of this damned place."
He did not realize,
they were already sinking —
and the miracle of Gods would not be enough to save them.