'When it is a question of money, everybody is of the same religion. Loyalty bends, morals break, and even blood turns to water. People pray for wealth, kneel for power, and betray for coins. Truth is cheap, honor is sold, and dignity is just another price tag. They call it survival, I call it surrender. You think you own money? Look closer. It owns you. It decides your worth, controls your choices, and in the end, buries you just the same as the poor'
Edran Vellaris the greedy founder of the iron bank
A final tremor of cold wind whispered through the mist as Sif and Jane stepped into the church's open doorway. Instantly, the chill peeled away, replaced by a soft glow of lanterns and flickering candles that danced across high vaulted arches. Rich tapestries draped the walls, and the scent of warmed beeswax and incense wrapped them in a deceptive comfort.
Rows of polished pews stretched before an altar bathed in golden light. Above it, carved in the stone lintel, ran a single phrase in the Old Tongue:
"Only the lost may seek what haunts their hearts."
At Sif's side, Jane paused, her breath visible in the sudden warmth. He noticed how her hand shook when she brushed a wisp of red hair from her face.
"Even here," she whispered, "I half expected the fog to swallow us."
He reached for her arm instinctively. "You did well to follow."
She offered a wan smile, but he saw her eyes flicker with doubt.
They had just taken two steps down the center aisle when the church doors slammed shut behind them. The lanterns guttered. From the shadows beyond the altar, a shaped silhouette emerged—the Man of Glass, Elandar Mire, stepping forward in polished plate that caught every flicker.
His voice rang through the high chamber: "Welcome, Fox… and Jane of Orvalia."
Jane's eyes widened in shock; Sif braced for the next blow.
Elandar held up two pewter chalices, their surfaces dull as a dying ember. "My final trial," he pronounced. "One cup bears truth; one bears lies. Sip, and your choice will bind your fate."
He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. Candlelight glinted cruelly off his helm.
Mechanics of the Game
Elandar's voice grew soft, almost tender: "Each chalice holds water drawn from this chapel's spring—pure, yet enchanted. To sip the 'Truth' is to confess what burns in your soul. To sip the 'Lie' is to betray the one you cherish most."
His gaze locked on Jane. With deliberate calm, he placed the cups before them. "Choose wisely."
Sif's Panic & Jane's Tears
Sif's heart hammered as he stared at the cups. He pictured the frozen lake, the broken bodies, the echo of Jane's laughter mingled with panic. Beside him, Jane's hand hovered over the chalices, her usual composure crumbling.
"I… I don't want to hurt you," she whispered, voice barely audible.
Sif gripped her shoulder. "We end this together."
The Choice
They each lifted a chalice—silver-blue light dancing in the liquid. Time stretched. Sif's breath came in ragged gusts. Jane's lips trembled as she raised hers.
At the last heartbeat, Sif shouted, "Stop!" and flung Jane's cup aside. She stared, confusion and relief mingling in her eyes.
"You choose for me?" she gasped.
He shook his head, voice tight. "No. I… I need to know."
He brought his cup to his lips—swallowed. A simmering warmth spread through him. The chalice clattered from his hand.
Before he could steady himself, Jane's expression twisted. Her lips curved in a terrible smile. "I've always told your story," she murmured. "How the Fox saved my sisters, how you swore to protect us…"
Then, with a fluid motion, she drew a hidden dagger and drove it into Sif's side. His sword fell; pain flared white-hot. He staggered, eyes wide as the realization hit.
She whispered, "I lied," and vanished into the mist rising from the floor.
Sif sank to one knee, breath rasping. Grief and fury warred in his chest. He looked up to see Elandar's helm glinting down at him.
"Well done, Fox of the reach," the Man of Glass applauded softly. "You discerned truth from betrayal."
He reached into his breastplate and produced a small silver token. "A rare victory. I owe you my promise: one wish—anything within my power."
Sif lifted himself fully, voice hoarse but unwavering: "I have no wish." He rose slowly, sword in hand, every movement a testament to his will.
Elandar's mirrored visor seemed to smile. "Then I remain your debtor, until the mists reclaim me." With that, the Man of Glass stepped backward, disappearing into the swirling haze as the church doors creaked open.
Shaking, Sif made his way down the aisle. The candles snapped back to life, their warm glow steady. Outside, the first rays of dawn cut through the silver mist.
Alone in the chapel's threshold, Sif looked back once—at the empty pews, at the soft inscription above the altar. Then he turned toward the rising sun, the burden of betrayal pressing on his shoulders, and strode out into the world the mists had revealed