Faithfulness?

Aprilis 9th, late afternoon. Inside the cabin.

I carefully examined the small wooden cabin. The air carried the smell of damp earth and smoke from the campfire in the corner. Rainwater dripped steadily from the edges of the roof, splashing against the packed dirt floor. Three Death Riders we had captured were tied against the far wall. Their black armor was dented and scratched, reflecting the flickering firelight in uneven glints. They were unconscious but still breathing. Their shallow breaths and occasional low groans broke the silence in the cabin.

"Is everything ready?" I asked. My voice was calm but firm, my gaze shifting between Vashtun, Rufus, and then Lysander.

"Of course," Vashtun replied. His voice was rough, still carrying traces of tension from the earlier battle, though his breathing was steady now. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his posture looking relaxed but still taut with emotion.

Rufus stood by the door, checking the reins and saddles of our horses. The animals were restless from the lingering storm outside. Every gust of wind made them neigh and stomp on the floor. Lysander sat on a low stool near the fire, his fists tightly clenched, his eyes shifting between the bound Death Riders and me.

We had decided to bring Lysander along. Not out of sympathy, and not out of trust. His map, which he claimed showed something worth more than his own life, was reason enough. The moment he first mentioned the map of the god's tomb, a line from a book I'd read surfaced in my mind.

It was from The Tale of a Dwarf and the Primeval Forger. I remembered the exact passage:

"Darun, varel ek sundro Kontinen, ez un maakir haltez memrin var Mesiar, zan korin nemrat 'Maqam-Divar.'"

Loosely translated, it meant: "Far in the south of the continent lies a place that holds many memories of the Messiah. That place is called the 'tomb of a god.'"

A Messiah was something I had yet to see proof of in this world. If such a figure truly existed, I needed to understand their role in this land's history. That tomb might hold more than relics. It might hold knowledge.

But Lysander's map marked the tomb in Cledestine, not the southern continent. Did that mean there was more than one tomb? Or was his map incomplete, maybe even fake?

The wind howled outside, shaking the thin wooden walls. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the horses' breathing, the crackle of the fire, and the fading rumble of the storm. The quiet stretched too long, so I broke it.

"Is there anyone here who doesn't worship the gods?" I asked suddenly.

Vashtun raised his head slightly, his brows furrowing. Rufus glanced back from the door, meeting my eyes for the first time. Lysander stayed silent, his expression hardening.

"I follow the Church of Perpetual Light," Rufus said after a pause. His voice was deep and steady, carrying clearly in the cabin. "But I don't truly worship. Not the way the priests expect. I pray sometimes, usually when I need luck. We revere a goddess, also called the Perpetual Light. They say she rules over light, guidance, and salvation."

Vashtun shot him a crooked smile. "And you're not worried about punishment for that? The church authorities aren't known for their mercy."

Rufus shrugged. "I don't deny the gods exist. I just don't see the point in kneeling every two days, burning incense, and chanting prayers. That's what the temple demands. Exhausting. I respect the Light, but I don't need to drain myself just to prove it to some priest."

I turned to Vashtun. "What about you? I only knew you as a chess gambler at the market before all this."

"I attend the Church of Avarice Flame," he said bluntly. "We serve Mommon, patron of ambition and profit. Outsiders call him the god of greed, but the priests don't see him as evil. He's not like those strange gods worshiped by the Falling Star Order, the ones most kingdoms consider dangerous. We burn incense twice a month and use costly offerings to gain his blessings."

My eyes shifted to Lysander. He still didn't speak, his posture rigid, shoulders tight. From his silence and bearing, I guessed he followed one of the western faiths, likely the Church of Wisdom and Virtue. He didn't look like an Evolver, and he clearly had no interest in discussing his beliefs.

"At least none of you act like tyrants," I said finally.

"Tyrants?" Vashtun raised an eyebrow.

"Where I come from," I explained, "rulers often pretend to be devout. It keeps the people calm. People trust leaders who appear religious, and they're slower to suspect corruption or shady dealings."

Vashtun leaned back, stroking his chin. "Never thought about it that way. You really see everything like a game of influence, don't you?"

The storm eased as darkness settled outside. The howling wind gave way to the steady chorus of crickets. We decided to spend the night in the cabin. I took the first watch, sitting near the door with my back against the wall, listening to the forest. The drip of water, the distant hoot of an owl, and the occasional snap of a branch carried through the cold night air.

While the others slept, my mind stayed on the two paths ahead. Lysander's map, and the Sovereign's Gambit. Chasing the Gambit meant abandoning a source of knowledge and personal gain. Chasing the map meant drawing the wrath of the Consortium, a force I couldn't confront head-on.

I needed both. The question was, how?

...…

The next morning, we packed our gear and left the cabin. The roads were thick with mud from the night's rain, slowing the horses' pace. The cold, damp air carried the smell of wet soil as we rode. At first, little was said. Last night's battle had changed us. By nature now, we were no longer merchants, guards, or drivers. We had fought together. That built something else, maybe a thin trust, perhaps temporary, but enough to plant the seed of camaraderie.

"So, what's the plan?" Vashtun asked, breaking the silence again.

"We split up for now," I said. "Rufus, take Lysander to the nearest safe town. Find a quiet inn, far from spies and nosy people. I'll send instructions once I know our next step."

"And us?" Vashtun asked, gesturing between the two of us.

"We're heading for the Gambit," I said. "But not directly. I want to stop by the mining town in the Gilded Valley. There's a black market there. They sell rare artifacts, information—credible enough—and intel on potential rivals."

"Looking for something specific?"

"I'm looking for weaknesses," I said. "Every Gambit participant will have something to hide. Family debts, internal conflicts, scandals. Information is as valuable as a weapon."

The following days revealed two faces of Cledestine. First, we passed through farmland, vast fields with workers driving oxen across fertile soil. The people were quiet but seemed content, living by the seasons. Their homes were wooden cottages with smoke rising from stone chimneys.

Then we reached the outskirts of the mines. The air was thick with coal dust. The men and women we met were thin, their eyes sunken, faces blackened with soot. Wooden frames rose along the hillsides, leading to gaping tunnels. The sounds of hammers and wagon wheels echoed day and night.

In a small village, we stopped at a crowded tavern. The air reeked of sweat and roasted meat, mixed with the sour tang of spilled ale. At a nearby table, a group of mercenaries spoke in hushed tones. I listened carefully.

"They say Royal Thunder Knight Carsen Fraust is missing," one said. "Buried by a landslide while fighting that sorcerer in the Frostfang Peaks."

"So Barthalzan escaped? Still holding the relic?" another asked.

"Seems so. The royal search teams found nothing. The mountain swallowed everything."

Carsen Fraust was dead, or at least gone. That meant the relic, The Ghoul Affection, was still with Barthalzan. For my plans, that meant I needed a stronger lure, a distraction big enough to draw him out.

That night, in the logging trade town, Vashtun and I walked through its night market. Oil lamps lit the streets. Merchants haggled over rare furs, raw gems, and black-market charms. The people here were rougher than in Clockthon—scarred lumberjacks drinking heavily, scrutiny-eyed traders guarding every coin.

In the square, an old man addressed a small crowd. His clothes were tattered. His voice carried over the noise.

"They say the gods made the rivers and mountains," he said. "But it's the hands of cutters and diggers that shape the roads. Nobles build their keeps, but it's the masons who lay the stones. Power doesn't come from above, from the sky or the throne. It begins with those who work."

A simple message, but it resonated with many listening. A flicker of defiance, no, more like a passing breeze, against the feudal order that bound this kingdom.

As we left the square, Vashtun said, "A man like that could be trouble for the crown."

"Or maybe they're the ones who'll reshape the crown," I replied.

Each day brought something new. From travelers, I learned about different Evolver paths. The Storyteller, who could manifest their tales into reality for a short time. The Beastmaster, who could speak to and command wild creatures. Powers like these made the balance of this world harder to grasp in simple terms.

After nearly four days of travel, with delays along the way, we reached Port Ancalia. The harbor bustled with sailors from across nations, merchants shouting in different tongues, and young nobles preparing for the Gambit. The streets felt alive, but also taut, as if everyone was waiting for something to begin.

The night before leaving for the island, Vashtun and I sat on the balcony of our rented room. The inn overlooked the dark sea. Below, the waves reflected faint lantern light from the distant docks.

"You ready for this, Welt?" Vashtun asked, his tone flat.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Every time I think I understand the rules of this game, the board changes."

"That's what makes it worth playing," he said, a faint smile on his lips.

I leaned forward, staring at the waves. I thought about Irene, Silas in the Lower City, Viviane, and Lysander waiting somewhere. The Gambit couldn't just be a game for spoiled heirs or whatever. There's no way no one dies in what's coming. Feels like a knot, honestly. Haah, I'm already starting to feel the boredom set in. Hopefully, it doesn't end up dull.

"Vashtun," I said quietly. "If something happens to me on that island—"

"Nothing will happen to you," he cut in, his voice calm and steady. "I'll be there."

I looked at him. Beneath his dry humor and odd tone, there was a glint of something I hadn't expected—what most people would call loyalty. Or maybe just a bond formed from too many battles fought together.

"When this is over," I said, changing the subject, "you and I should travel. Not for gold. Not for politics. Just to see the world. Maybe east, to Zhonghua. Or north, to the frozen lands of Zarovgard."

Vashtun raised an eyebrow. "Travel? With you? Sounds painfully boring."

"Maybe it will be," I said. "Or maybe we'll find something more interesting than power or money."

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet. That's the point of traveling."

He didn't answer. His eyes stayed on the horizon, where the first light of dawn began to show.

The day of the Sovereign's Gambit was almost here. The sea was calm, the air cool and dry. In the distance, the island waited, wrapped in mist.

I didn't know what trials awaited us. I didn't know if I would return. But as the horizon grew brighter, I didn't feel fear. Only the weight of choices yet to be made, and the certainty that the path ahead left no room for hesitation.

The ship would sail at sunrise. The game was about to begin.