The dungeon beneath the Nameless Church stank of rot and old blood, the stones weeping moisture under the flickering light of scattered torches.
The air was thick, heavy, suffocating — a silent ocean pressing down on every breath.
They stood in a circle, black-robed priests like vultures, their faces hidden, their gazes sharp and hungry beneath shadowed hoods.
At the center of that grim theater:
Froy.
A boy of seven.
Small hands trembling, clad now in cold, heavy iron.
The brass knuckles slid loosely onto his fingers, oversized and awkward, as Sinclaire offered them without a word — her bright, untroubled smile framed by the wavering light.
"I couldn't find anything better," she said lightly.
Perhaps it was true.
Perhaps it wasn't.
But it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Froy swallowed hard.
Before him, bound to a cracked stone pillar, knelt one of the mercenaries — one of those who had once fought to defend his home.
A strip of black cloth was tied tightly across the man's eyes.
His chest heaved with ragged, panicked breaths, and though he could not see the boy approaching, he flinched at every footstep.
Froy reached out with one small, trembling hand and grabbed a handful of the man's greasy hair.
The mercenary gasped — a broken, pitiful sound — as Froy yanked his head up.
There was a moment, brief and agonizing, where time itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then the boy struck.
The first punch landed with a wet crack against the man's cheekbone.
The second shattered a tooth, sending it skittering across the cold stone floor.
Blood exploded in sprays with every blow, painting Froy's pale arms and face in splatters of red.
The mercenary choked, gagging on his own blood, trying weakly to speak — to plead, perhaps, or curse, or beg for mercy he could no longer see.
Froy's hand shook violently with every strike.
Tears blurred one eye, a single stream carving a line down his blood-spattered cheek.
But he didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Because he understood, even at seven years old —
if he hesitated, he would die.
And so he hit harder.
Faster.
Desperately, like a trapped animal gnawing off its own limb.
The sound of bone cracking echoed in the dungeon like the tolling of a funeral bell.
The mercenary's face contorted into something grotesque, no longer resembling a man — just a ruin of flesh and blood and broken bone.
Still Froy struck.
Still he tore himself apart with every blow.
Through his bloodied face, the boy whispered, making sure the broken man could hear every shattered word:
'Die... Die... Please... Please... Just... Die... already...'
Around him, the other mercenaries — blindfolded, chained, helpless — heard it all.
They heard the gurgling screams.
They heard the desperate, shuddering gasps.
Terror seized them.
Some screamed, thrashing against their bonds.
Some sobbed, calling out to long-dead gods.
Some begged, their voices cracking: promises of gold, of service, of anything, if only they could live.
But no one listened.
The black-robed priests watched in perfect silence.
Pope Caeron stood still atop a dais, hands folded before him, expression unreadable.
Sinclaire — sweet, bright Sinclaire — simply watched, head tilted slightly, as if admiring a particularly interesting painting.
And somewhere, hidden deep within the mist and stone and ancient blood, something vast stirred.
Something beyond gods.
Beyond mercy.
It watched as the last light in Froy's soul guttered and died.
And from the ruins of innocence, a hand unseen would slowly mold and shape the boy into a useful pawn — a tool for the chaos yet to come in the Great Board Game.