Morning broke over Glintmere in eerie silence.
The usual sounds of morning—coughing elders, clattering pots, bleating goats—were all but absent. The flames from the previous night's fire still smoldered among the blackened stumps beyond the eastern woodline. The bodies of the two merchant guards, or what was left of them, had been reduced to ash and bone.
What should have been grief or fear felt more like suffocating tension.
Because this time, the village's misfortune had a witness—one who carried clout, wealth, and more dangerously... connections to the Church.
The merchant stood tall at the center of the village square, his silks replaced by a darker, more somber coat. Three guards remained at his side, each armed with curved sabers, eyes darting to any movement with paranoid precision.
Before him stood the village chief—an old man named Redar, thin and pale, with a back hunched from decades of tilling cursed soil and surviving beneath divine neglect.
Cain watched the confrontation from a half-collapsed porch nearby, pretending to be weak, still nursing his wounds with practiced subtlety. He had seen these scenes before in his past life—accusations wrapped in civility, threats hidden in the language of righteousness.
The merchant's voice carried easily through the square.
"I understand," he said, hands raised, "that the Gem Masters who passed through brought great destruction. I sympathize with your suffering. But I cannot ignore the possibility that it wasn't their battle… but your heretical conduct that drew divine wrath to this place."
Gasps echoed through the gathered villagers—barely ninety souls remaining from the once-thriving Glintmere. Redar stiffened, his expression twisting in indignation.
"We have done nothing of the sort!" the chief snapped. "We are faithful, we offer tribute at the shrine. You've seen it yourself—the only building untouched by the flames!"
"Yes," the merchant said with a thin smile. "Very convenient, isn't it?"
Angus stepped forward, arms crossed, face stern but calm. "Are you accusing the whole village?"
"I'm requesting clarity," the merchant said. "I would like to account for each survivor. If the gods spared some... and not others, then I must know why."
Murmurs rippled through the villagers. Cain could practically feel the unease spreading like frostbite.
The merchant began asking names. Old women. Farmers. Children. Each one presented, each one listed. He took notes on a golden-leafed scroll, writing with precision. His guards whispered as they eyed the crowd.
Then the merchant's quill stopped.
"...Cain Vox."
Cain stilled.
Angus bristled beside him.
"That boy," the merchant continued, "was grievously wounded, wasn't he? Crushed, I was told. Ribs broken. Skull dented. Legs mangled beyond healing."
Angus answered, calm but firm. "That's right."
"And yet," the merchant said slowly, turning his gaze to Cain, "here he stands. Awake. Breathing. Walking."
"By the grace of the gods," Angus replied, tone sharper now.
"Or the interference of something darker," the merchant countered, his voice like a sword drawn halfway from its sheath. "Two of my men are dead. Killed by flame. And now I learn that a boy who should be dead lives?"
He turned to the gathered crowd, voice rising.
"You tell me—does this not smell of corruption? Of infernal blessings masked as miracles?"
A frightened murmur ran through the crowd. Many looked away. Some clutched amulets to their chests. Others muttered prayers under their breath.
Cain tensed but didn't speak.
It was Angus who stepped forward, shielding his son with his body.
"You tread a dangerous path, merchant," he said quietly, "to accuse the innocent on nothing but fear and coincidence."
"I will report what I've seen," the merchant said. "If the boy is innocent, let the clergy determine it. Let the high priests of Asclepius test his soul. Or would you deny their judgment?"
The village chief raised a hand. "Enough. If testimony is what you want, we will offer it. You will not brand a child with heresy because he lived."
The merchant nodded slowly. "Very well. But I will take this to the clergy."
Satisfied—or at least pretending to be—he turned and left with his guards, the weight of his stare lingering far too long on Cain.
That evening, as the village returned to its quiet repair work, Cain sat silently in his home, deep in thought.
Angus hadn't spoken much since the confrontation. He'd only patted Cain on the shoulder once, whispering, "Don't worry, lad," before disappearing into the other room.
But Cain could feel it.
His father was not fine.
That fire he'd glimpsed in Angus's eyes during the merchant's accusations hadn't faded. It had grown. Simmered. Hardened into something more dangerous.
And Cain knew that kind of emotion well. It wasn't fury for the village. It wasn't even righteous indignation for the gods.
It was a father's rage.
That night, Cain lay on his pallet, pretending to sleep.
Then—creak.
The door eased open.
Angus stepped into the moonlight, his cloak wrapped tightly, a small pouch slung at his belt.
He moved quietly, his limp subtle but present.
Cain didn't need to guess where he was going.
The merchant's camp.
His father was going there.
And while Cain didn't know if it was for diplomacy or something far darker...
He knew one thing for certain.
He couldn't let Angus face it alone.
Not in a world like this.