The mist that had swallowed Froy's mind faded like a dream slipping through desperate fingers.
A breath.
That was all it had taken.
One ragged breath, shivering through bloodstained lips — and the eternity of death and rebirth collapsed into nothingness.
Froy blinked slowly.
He was back.
The heavy stones of the dungeon pressed in around him once more, the scent of blood and damp air clogging his senses.
The corpses of the mercenaries lay still at his feet, their broken bodies a testament to what he had become.
But Froy no longer looked at them with sorrow.
Not even with pity.
He simply... looked.
Detached. Whole. Hollow.
A soft shuffle of robes echoed through the chamber.
Pope Caeron approached, his white beard and kindly eyes unchanged — but to Froy's sharpened senses, the man now reeked of something else.
Something false.
A smile stretched across the old man's thin lips.
"You have passed the trial, my child," he said warmly, his voice filled with manufactured pride.
"You have proven yourself worthy."
Behind him, Sinclaire came skipping forward, her silver-blue hair bouncing in the torchlight.
She grinned, practically glowing.
"You did it, Froy!" she beamed. "You're amazing!"
Her joy seemed genuine — too genuine.
Froy dipped his head slightly, hiding the flicker of cold calculation in his eyes.
The Pope continued, folding his hands neatly.
"Prepare yourself well, little one," he said.
"Tomorrow, the Grand Rite shall commence.
The final preparations are complete.
The materials... are ready."
His smile deepened, almost imperceptibly.
Sinclaire clapped her hands together excitedly.
"Tomorrow!" she whispered, tugging gently at Froy's sleeve.
"Come on, let's go back upstairs! I'll show you the new stars!"
Without a word, Froy allowed her to pull him away.
His small feet, bare and bloodstained, left crimson prints across the dungeon floor as they ascended the winding staircase back toward the hollow halls of the Nameless Church.
But he did not stumble.
He did not falter.
The boy who had once flinched at the unknown, who had once wondered about kindness and mercy — that boy was gone.
In his place walked a creature sharpened to a gleaming, silent edge.
The Pawn had returned to the board.
And none of them — not the smiling traitor Pope, not the giggling little snake at his side —
none of them truly understood what had been forged in the darkness.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very soon.
They would.