The sky above Umbryss stretched out in a colorless void, the black sun hanging still and heavy, casting no warmth, no shadow — only the endless weight of a forgotten heaven.
Yet within that endless silence, laughter rang out.
Sinclaire pulled Froy by the hand through the broken corridors of the Nameless Church, her silver-blue hair bouncing behind her like a streak of stolen starlight. She pointed excitedly at crumbling statues, ruined murals, and endless halls where the mist crept like sleeping beasts.
"That's the Hall of the Silent Bells!" she giggled, gesturing to a long corridor lined with skeletal remains of broken chimes.
"And there— that used to be the garden! Well, what's left of it, anyway!"
Froy followed without resistance, his small feet silent against the cold stone. He said nothing, his brilliant blue eyes — like twin shards of frozen sky — absorbing everything with a detached stillness that felt far too old for his seven years.
Sinclaire didn't seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn't care.
She smiled at everything. At the empty rooms. At the rotting tapestries. Even at the collapsed altars swallowed by blackened vines.
To her, Umbryss was a playground.
They passed the Hall of Reliquaries — massive doors sealed shut with heavy chains and wards burned into the stone. Sinclaire slowed, glancing around mischievously.
"Come on," she whispered. "This way. I'll show you something better."
Curiosity flickered faintly in Froy's hollow chest. He let her pull him into a narrow passage hidden behind a tapestry, winding deeper into the unseen heart of the church.
At the end of the passage stood another door — cracked, old, but unlocked. Sinclaire pushed it open with both hands, grunting softly.
Inside, the air shifted.
Gold gleamed from mountains of treasure piled high. Crimson jewels, swords of forgotten kings, rare ores that pulsed faintly with ancient magic. The air smelled of dust, age, and the deep, humming silence of power hoarded and left to rot.
Froy stepped inside slowly. The mist parted for him like a living thing.
And then he saw it.
Amidst the mountains of treasure, towering quietly above them all, stood a single artifact — a chalice.
It was set upon a pedestal of dark stone. No dust touched it. No time had stained it. It gleamed, clean and perfect, as though it had just been placed there seconds ago.
Froy couldn't look away. His heart — usually a frozen sea — gave a single, tiny ripple.
Sinclaire followed his gaze and shrugged.
"That," she said, pointing casually, "is Calix Nihilum. The Holy Chalice of our faith... though it hasn't stirred for as long as anyone can remember."
Her voice carried no reverence, only childlike wonder, tinged with a mischievous smirk.
But for Froy — the chalice seemed to hum in his blood, just faintly.
Before he could step closer, heavy footsteps echoed behind them.
Both children froze.
"You are not allowed here," a cold, dispassionate voice intoned.
Black-robed priests emerged from the mist, their faces hidden beneath heavy hoods. Without ceremony, they seized Sinclaire and Froy by the arms, dragging them back toward the main halls.
Froy didn't struggle. Neither did Sinclaire. She only pouted dramatically, muttering under her breath.
For their crime — a violation of sacred boundaries — the punishment was swift and silent: Additional lessons. Longer hours. Harder tests.
"Learning is a form of penance," one of the priests murmured as they were led away. "There is no room for disobedience in the house of faith."
Yet behind those added lessons, hidden behind the countless hours of rote scripture and sacred recitation, a darker trial awaited.
A test whispered only in the coldest corridors.
The Trial of Purity.
It would not be written in books. It would not be spoken of in sermons. It would be carved into the soul through blood.
From the dungeons beneath the church, a group of mercenaries had been dragged — men who had once defended a small village on the outskirts of Umbryss. The same village where Froy had lived. The same men who had fought to protect it... before the priests came.
They were to be the offerings.
And Froy, with Sinclaire assisting, would be ordered to perform his first sacrifice.
Not swift. Not clean.
He would be taught how to break them.
How to make their final breaths fuel the sacred rituals.
And it must be done with his own hands, without pity, without hesitation.
Somewhere deep beneath the church, the Calix Nihilum pulsed once more.
Waiting.
Hungering.
For the boy whose heart had already begun to crack.