Chapter 4: The Gilded Road
Three months had passed since Kael and Sam made their "Merchant's Promise" in the shadows of the borderlands. In that time, the dirt paths of the frontier had given way to the paved, white-stone highways that led toward the central trade hubs of Oakhaven.
The rhythm of their lives had become a well-oiled machine. Sam was the voice and the shield of coin; Kael was the silent miracle in the background.
They sat now in a brightly painted wagon—one Sam had bought with the proceeds from their first month together. It was emblazoned with a simple but elegant crest: a golden coin over a green leaf. The start of the Willer Merchant Guild.
"Posture, Kael! Remember, you aren't a jungle boy anymore," Sam called out from the driver's seat, glancing back with a grin. "You are the 'Sage of the Emerald Mist.' You're mysterious. You're expensive. And most importantly, you're busy."
Kael, sitting inside the wagon amidst crates of rare herbs and silk, let out a soft sigh. He was wearing a new robe—a deep charcoal grey with silver embroidery. It was far more comfortable than his old jungle clothes, but the Stasis Ring on his finger still felt like a lead weight.
"I don't like the name, Sam," Kael muttered. "I'm just a healer. And we're charging too much. That widow in the last village... she gave you her last three silver pieces."
Sam pulled the horses to a halt at the crest of a hill. Below them, the sprawling city of Cresthaven glittered in the afternoon sun. It was a sea of red-tiled roofs and white towers, dominated by a massive cathedral-like structure at its center—the local branch of the Great Academy.
"Kael, listen to me," Sam said, turning around with an earnest expression. "The widow paid three silver for her son's life. To her, that's a bargain. If we don't charge, the Academy mages will get suspicious. They don't like 'charity' healers—it makes their own high prices look bad. We have to play the part to stay safe."
Sam hopped down and walked to the back of the wagon, leaning against the frame. "Besides, we need the capital. If we're going to get into the Sunken Ruins of Aethelgard later this year, we need high-grade equipment. Deep-sea diving suits, mana-nullifying lanterns, and enough bribes to keep the Royal Guard looking the other way."
The mention of Aethelgard always made Kael's skin prickle. Sam had been obsessed with the ruins since they found an old map in a scholar's pack two towns ago. Kael wanted to go because Elara's journals mentioned the ruins held a "Seal of the Primordials." He hoped to find more clues about his own magic there.
"Are we stopping here?" Kael asked, looking at the city walls.
"Just for two days," Sam said. "There's a plague in the Weaver's District. The Academy mages have given up. They say it's a 'Mana-Rot' curse. If you can fix it, Kael... we won't just have gold. We'll have a reputation that reaches the King's ears."
They entered the city through the merchant's gate. Sam handled the guards with practiced ease, sliding a silver coin into the captain's hand while spinning a tale of "medical supplies for the suffering."
The Weaver's District was a place of misery. Narrow alleys, stagnant water, and the sound of dry coughing echoed off the stone walls. In a small, crowded infirmary, dozens of people lay on straw mats, their skin covered in pulsing violet veins.
A group of three mages in blue Academy robes stood at the entrance, their hands glowing with a faint, antiseptic light. They looked exhausted and frustrated.
"It's useless," one of the blue-robed mages snapped as Sam approached. "The curse is rooted in the marrow. Every time we try to purge it, the patient's own mana reacts and burns them from the inside out."
Sam bowed low, his voice smooth as silk. "Gentlemen, a moment of your time. I represent the Sage of the Emerald Mist. He has... unconventional methods for such 'internal' disharmonies."
The mages laughed. "Unconventional? We've used the Three-Tier Purification Rites. If the Academy can't solve it, a wandering peddler certainly can't."
Kael stepped out of the wagon, his hood pulled low. He didn't look at the mages. He looked at a young girl shivering on a nearby mat. Her violet veins were glowing—the curse was feeding on her very life force.
Kael walked past the mages. One tried to stop him, but Kael simply brushed his arm. A tiny spark of mana—barely a 1-Ring flicker—made the mage's hand go numb instantly.
Kael knelt by the girl. He could feel the rot. It wasn't a natural plague; it was a parasitic spell, likely leaked from some ancient artifact being tinkered with by the nobles.
Vessel & Ring, Kael thought.
He closed his eyes. Behind his lids, he saw his internal mana core—a sun of golden light. He channeled a thread of it, thinner than a spider's silk, through the Stasis Ring.
One perfect, white-gold ring appeared around his wrist.
"Transmutation: Purity of the Origin," Kael whispered.
He didn't use the standard healing spell. He used an Ancient Art meant for "Cleansing the Tainted Earth."
As he touched the girl's forehead, the violet veins didn't just fade—they turned into liquid light and flowed out of her pores, evaporating into the air with a hiss. The girl's breathing instantly leveled out. The color returned to her cheeks.
The Academy mages stood frozen. "No chant... no circle... just a touch?"
Kael moved to the next patient, then the next. He worked for six hours, a silent ghost of healing moving through the room. By the time he was done, the infirmary was silent, filled with people sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks.
Kael stood up, his legs shaking slightly. Using his magic through the Stasis Ring for so long was like trying to thread a needle while wearing heavy iron gauntlets.
Sam was already there, holding a cloak to wrap around Kael's shoulders. But Sam wasn't looking at the healed people. He was looking at the leather pouch the district governor was handing him—a pouch that jingled with the heavy, unmistakable thud of high-grade gold.
"You did it, Kael," Sam whispered, his eyes bright with a fervor that Kael didn't quite recognize. "Do you have any idea what this means? We're not just rich. We're untouchable."
Kael leaned on Sam as they walked back to the wagon. "I'm just tired, Sam. I want to go back to the jungle."
"Soon, brother," Sam said, patting Kael's shoulder while his other hand gripped the gold pouch tight. "Just one more big score. Aethelgard. After that, we can go anywhere."
As the wagon rolled away from the infirmary, Kael fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. He didn't see Sam sitting by the lantern light, counting the coins over and over.
As his fingers reached the bottom of the leather pouch, they brushed against something that wasn't metal. It was cold—unnaturally so. Sam pulled out a jagged shard of obsidian, no larger than a thumb. It seemed to swallow the lantern light rather than reflect it, pulsing with a faint, oily sheen.
"Strange," Sam whispered, holding it up to the flame.
You want more than gold, don't you, Little Merchant?
Sam froze, his breath hitching. He looked around the cramped wagon, but Kael was still asleep, his breathing heavy and even. The voice hadn't come from the air; it had echoed from the base of his skull.
The boy is a sun, the shard pulsed with a dull, violet rhythm in his palm. But even a sun casts shadows. Aethelgard... the forbidden chamber... it is all waiting for you.
Sam's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a sudden, sharp chill crawl up his spine. Logic told him to throw the stone out of the moving wagon. He should wake Kael; the boy would know what to do. But as his gaze moved from the sleeping healer to the pile of gold on the table, his fingers didn't move. They tightened around the obsidian.
'Aethelgard,' Sam echoed, his voice barely a breath.
Everlasting wealth, the shard whispered back, its voice smooth as spilled wine. Everlasting power. To be a King in a world of peasants. Why be a merchant when you can be a God? Just one small exchange...
Sam looked at the sleeping Kael. He saw a friend, yes. But more than that, he saw a key—a key that could unlock a door to a power far greater than gold. His thumb traced the sharp edge of the obsidian, and for the first time, his smile didn't reach his eyes.
The road to Aethelgard was now open. And the Dark God, still slumbering in its obsidian cage, began to stir at the scent of the White Sun's mana.