Cain rose from the pallet the moment the door eased shut.
He moved like a shadow through the dim interior of the house, the cool wood floor cold beneath his bare feet. Outside, the wind howled softly, dragging the scent of ash and smoke through the cracks in the walls. Even more than a month after the attack, the village still smelled like death.
And tonight, death was likely on the air again.
He pulled a worn cloak from the hook near the door and slipped out the back, staying low. His body had recovered, but the ache of memory was always there, a thrum in his chest whenever he breathed too deeply or turned too quickly. He embraced the discomfort.
For it reminded him that he was still here, still alive.
The moon was high, casting a pale sheen over the blackened ruins and crooked cottages.
He moved through alleyways and narrow footpaths, avoiding the main roads where stray eyes might see him. He wasn't sure if the merchant had hired scouts or informants, but after last night, caution was no longer a suggestion.
It was law.
His father was a few hundred feet ahead, trudging toward the edge of the village where the old estate still loomed. Angus's limp was barely noticeable now, but Cain could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigidity in his gait.
This wasn't a friendly visit.
This was retribution.
Cain's mind raced.
What would his father do? Threaten? Plead? Or... kill?
The idea seemed ludicrous at first.
Angus Vox was kind, patient, and painfully selfless. But Cain had seen that fire in his eyes when the merchant spoke those words.
Demonic influence.
Heresy.
He had almost lost his son to death once. He wouldn't lose him to execution by a Church tribunal.
Cain crouched low behind a collapsed fencepost and watched as Angus reached the ruined estate. Two of the merchant's remaining guards lounged by the entrance, half-asleep, their blades leaning against the wall. One of them raised his head lazily.
"You again? It's past sundown, old man. The boss is resting."
"He'll want to hear what I have to say," Angus replied calmly. "Tell him it's about the boy."
The guards exchanged a look.
That was enough.
One of them rose and stepped inside while the other glared at Angus with the vacant malice of a dog trained to bite before thinking. Cain remained hidden. His heart beat slowly, steadily. He was ready to act the moment things turned violent.
Minutes passed. Then the door creaked again.
The merchant emerged, now clad in a black tunic stitched with golden thread, a smug expression half-hidden behind exaggerated politeness.
"Master Vox. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"
Angus didn't flinch. "You accuse my son of witchery, yet you have no proof. Only fear."
The merchant raised a brow. "Fear, my dear man, is often the smoke that precedes divine fire."
"Then let that fire come for me first," Angus said. "I brought Cain into this world. If there is heresy in his blood, let it be from me."
A flicker of something passed through the merchant's eyes. Not doubt. Not pity.
Amusement.
"Touching," he said. "But the Inquisition will not be moved by fatherly sentiment. If you wish to confess, I can offer you a clean cut across the neck. Save them the trouble."
Angus took a slow step forward.
"I came to offer you a warning."
The merchant's smile faltered.
"You're treading a path where your protection ends," Angus continued. "You think the gods will watch over you while you threaten children and use church names to justify greed? You're not in the capital. You're in a graveyard. And I have nothing to lose."
The guards reached for their weapons.
Cain moved.
He sprang over the fence and landed like a phantom.
Before the nearest guard could shout, Cain's hand was on his face, and with a surge of will, he whispered:
"Abyssal Kindling: Void Spark."
The man's scream died in his throat as violet-black flames erupted from his mouth and eyes, turning him into a torch of living agony. The second guard swung his blade wildly, but Cain ducked under it and slammed his palm into the man's chest. The fire took him too.
The merchant staggered back, eyes wide in horror. "You...!"
Cain turned toward him slowly, the voidfire still flickering around his hands, casting shadows across his face.
"You should've stayed in your gilded hole," Cain said, voice cold. "You're not the first to threaten me. But you may be the last who ever tries."
The merchant fell backward, tripping over rubble.
Angus stepped beside his son, but he didn't speak. He didn't scold. He didn't gasp.
He simply looked down at the burning corpses, then to Cain, and nodded once.
"We need to be gone by sunrise."
Cain hesitated.
"You knew?"
Angus met his eyes. "Not everything. But I saw the truth when you woke. I saw a gaze behind your eyes that didn't belong to a boy. I saw your pain. Your restraint.
I thought it was the maturity that came with hardship. And I made peace with it. But now that I see it... You are beyond it.
You're not the son I raised... but you're the son I have."
Cain felt something lodge in his throat. It wasn't rage. It wasn't pride.
It was something older. Deeper. Something he hadn't felt since the days before betrayal.
He looked down at the merchant, who whimpered, scrambling backward.
Cain raised a hand, flame curling in his palm.
Angus spoke to him.
"End him."
Cain's brows lifted.
"You sure?"
"So he can never wag his false tongue ever again."
Cain looked at the merchant one last time. Then he unleashed the flame.
By sunrise, they were gone.
Glintmere had lost much. But that night, in blood and fire, something had returned to the ruins.
Hope, yes.
But more than that...
Vengeance reborn in the shell of a godless world.
The Primordial Progenitor had chosen well.
And Cain Vox, heir to two lives, walked forward into a world ruled by gods...
...ready to burn them all.