The firepit crackled low.
Most of the slaves huddled in exhausted silence, wounds crusting under rags, coughing into the salt-tinged air. No one spoke. The Temple's overseers had a way of punishing noise—they called it the "Voice Tax": ten lashes per word, payable in blood.
But across from Ashen, the girl watched him again.
Lira.
He'd heard the name whispered once, spat by a guard kicking her for drawing in the dirt.
She never cried out.
She never looked away.
And now, in the flickering dark, she pointed to the dirt near his feet, where the ashes of last night's fire smudged the ground. Then, slowly, she took a charred stick and began to draw.
Lines. Curves. Interwoven loops.
Ashen's eyes narrowed.
It was a glyph.
He knew the language—not from this world, but from before. From high temples built to bind the sky. It was a pre-divine script, older than Serathiel's first blade. Few even remembered its existence.
But the meaning was clear.
"Do you hear them too?"
He didn't respond at first.
Then, with one motion, Ashen dragged the stick through the ashes and wrote a symbol beside hers.
A spiral with a fractured stem.
"Always."
Lira blinked, stunned. Her hands trembled. She reached for his arm and touched him—not with desperation, but reverence. Her mouth didn't move, but her eyes glistened.
He could tell.
She had seen something.
A vision.
Maybe of him.
Or what he used to be.
Ashen slowly rose to his feet. Every movement was measured, almost ritualistic, as if he calculated the exact amount of attention it would draw—none.
He motioned for Lira to follow. She obeyed.
Together, they vanished deeper into the mine tunnels.
The older veins had long been abandoned. Cursed, the priests said. Collapsed, the guards claimed. In truth, Ashen knew what they were:
Holy wounds.
Places where gods once bled.
He led Lira into the narrowest passage, past a shattered icon of golden flame. The air thickened. Whispered prayers danced in the dark like coiling serpents.
"𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺…"
"𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘯…"
"𝘚𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘶𝘴…"
But none had been answered.
And now, they belonged to him.
In the hollowed chamber at the heart of the mine, he saw it.
A rusted altar. Half-sunken. Covered in mold and rot.
Here, long ago, a minor god was born in the desperation of slaves. A god of cracked backs, broken fingers, and whispered hope. But without sustained worship, it had died.
Forgotten.
Ashen placed his hand on the altar. It was cold.
Then he whispered—not a prayer, but a curse.
"Let your pain be not wasted."
He carved a fresh sigil with his thumb, drawing blood. The same mark as before, but altered—stronger, infused with Lira's glyph from the firepit. The moment it completed:
The altar screamed.
Not aloud. Not physically.
But Ashen felt it in his bones.
The divine rot beneath the stone pulsed. And through it, Ashen drank.
🔸 You have devoured a Forsaken Altar.
🔹 +1 Echo Rank: Now D (Echo-Touched)
🔹 + Corruption: 3.8%
🔹 + Divine Infamy: 1 (Obscure)
🔹 + Domain Fragment: "Pain Made Flesh"
🔹 Divine Awareness Risk: Minimal (Suppressed)
Ashen stumbled slightly, the surge overwhelming even him. He braced against the stone. Lira steadied him, her small hand firm against his ribs.
Then she knelt—voluntarily.
She didn't know what he was.
Didn't know what he would become.
But she felt it.
In him was no holiness.
Only hunger.
"We must leave," he said aloud for the first time. His voice was deep, dry, and commanding despite its restraint.
Lira nodded.
The next morning, the temple guards came to inspect the mines. One noticed the strange, sweet smell in the old tunnel. Another heard whispers that had no source.
But by then, Ashen and Lira were already on a cart headed toward the borderlands—sold, like cattle, to a noble house at the edge of the realm.
The guards never found the altar.
But they began to pray more fervently that week.
And somewhere high above the clouds, something stirred.