Chapter 06 - Through the Door

  “Master, your patient awaits,” said Doctor Samloe, blissfully unaware of the atmosphere. He opened the door while motioning me to go first.

  I looked toward the door and the inviting room beyond it, where the very air seemed to shimmer with the dense, almost tangible presence of essence.

  I knew this wasn't from the boy, but rather something left over from another source. Understanding that, I slowly entered the room.

  The small room was dimly lit, the glow of the afternoon sun filtering through a heavy curtain, which had been pulled aside just enough to let in fresh air. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden light, casting faint shadows across the worn wooden floor. The most striking feature near the entrance was a sturdy wooden shelf, its surface cluttered with a mix of small, carved figurines, a half-burned tallow candle, and a few tattered parchment scrolls. The air carried the faint scent of herbal remedies and damp wood.

  Against the far wall, beneath the window, lay a frail boy of fourteen, his pale face barely visible beneath the weight of rough woolen blankets. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths. The straw-stuffed mattress sagged beneath him, and a simple wooden cup rested on a small stool beside the bed. The only sound was the occasional rustle of fabric as he barely shifted in restless sleep, the room heavy with the quiet presence of illness.

  "Nothing otherworldly," I thought—right before the silence shattered with a loud click. The doctor had shut the door. Sealing me in.

  Immediately, my mind began to draft four highly creative ways to make him regret his life choices—most involving medical tools he probably had left lying around.

  On the other side, his voice rang out unbearably cheerful. "Please, let the Master have a few minutes alone!"

  Oh, he was pleased with himself. Smug, even.

  Then—I froze.

  A chill crawled up my spine as I felt it. A gaze. Not just any gaze—two small, black dots boring into me with the intensity of a viper ready to strike. They were tiny, yet carried a weight like a mountain pressing on my soul; yet somehow, they were ethereal, like staring into a void that whispered secrets best left unheard.

  I swallowed hard.

  I have studied artifacts and even laid eyes on the three held by the king, each grand and unmistakably powerful. Yet, never have I seen anything as simple and unassuming as these. Their plainness is almost unsettling. What power they hold—and how they might be used—sets my mind adrift, spiraling through endless possibilities.

  Before I could think, my body moved on its own, my hand reaching out as if drawn by an unseen force.

  I froze just as abruptly as I had moved, a sudden, chilling aura flaring to life behind me. The weight of it pressed against my back, sending a shiver up my spine.

  Slowly, I turned.

  A young man lay in the bed, his body frail and unmoving, but his eyes—his eyes burned with raw intensity, a silent scream of anguish and desperation. He would have thrown himself forward and wrenched the cubes from my reach if he had the strength.

  He didn’t need to speak.

  I understood that look perfectly.

  They were his. And I was not to touch them.

  My fingers twitched at my side, the temptation coiling around my thoughts like a serpent whispering sweet promises. Those small, unassuming cubes—what power could they hold? The king’s artifacts were grand and imposing, radiating their importance. But these… these were subtle, quiet. The kind of power that didn’t beg for attention but demanded it once understood.

  Fifteen seconds. That’s how long I allowed myself to bask in the imagined glory.

  I saw it—my hands grasping them, claiming them as my own. The weight of their potential settling in my hand, they whisper history and fate, bending to me. I am no longer just an observer of greatness; my legacy is sealed in something more than fleeting victories and forgotten deeds.

  And yet…

  A wheezing breath from the bed snapped me back.

  That gaze. Those desperate, anguished eyes, burning with an unspoken plea. Not just possession—ownership. A claim far deeper than greed or ambition. These weren’t just artifacts to him. They were something more. Something sacred.

  I exhaled, slowly unclenching my fingers.

  The glory would have been sweet. But the weight of stealing it? Perhaps too bitter to bear.

  This is why I hate dealing with the divine—everything is always a test, with your soul dangling over the edge like bait on a hook.

  I exhaled slowly, pushing the temptation aside like a shadow I refused to let in.

  The cubes—heavy with promise, pulsing with power—clung to my thoughts like an itch beneath the skin, impossible to ignore.

  But in the end, there was no real choice.

  I let the idea slip from my grasp, burying it deep. Because no matter how much I wanted them, I knew—deep down—it was the only choice that wouldn’t cost me more than I could afford to lose.

  Dammit! I cursed internally as the realization hit me—my knowledge of them and their owner now meant I was obligated to protect them or him. Curse the gods... they never give us a choice. Instead, they manipulate us, pushing us to perform their will no matter the risk or the impact. It’s as if we’re mere pawns in a game we can’t escape.

  This is why I never wanted to enter this room. I now have to protect him from the king and even his own family.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  My mind started to conjure up many plans and strategies, but I stopped myself when I realized I was distracted from one of the most fundamental discoveries I needed to make. I reached into my pocket and removed my Doeskin bag, which was inside.

  A voice echoed in the hallway. "Where is the Master?" Somanta’s voice rang out, clear and commanding, "I have returned with the book."

  Dammit. The fates had conspired to create the worst possible situation. I felt like a husband caught in an affair. Somanta—always sharp-eyed—sure to notice everything. I can’t let her discover this on her own–too many souls are at risk. There was no escaping this.

  I grabbed the Artifacts quickly, stuffing them into my bag along with the stone already there. I approached the boy, my heart racing, feeling the weight of those accusing eyes. As the door began to creak open, I acted fast, tying the bag around his neck in a hasty, desperate motion.

  Then, as if the universe itself had conspired to make things worse, the whole dam troop marched into the room. The air grew thick with tension, and I could feel the accusing eyes of Somanta and the mother, their gaze piercing as they took in the sight of me doing something with the boy. Every movement felt like a betrayal, and I was trapped in a corner with no way out.

  “He is awake, and I have seen strength in his eyes,” I said, not lying. “Please keep this charm around his neck for his comfort.”

  "Charm?" Somanta asked. "That's your soul st…." She quipped before my look shut her down. Understanding quickly appeared in her eyes. She understood I wanted to hide things, but she didn't know why.

  "Doctor, please walk us through your patient's diagnosis and history. This will enlighten my disciples," I requested.

  Thankfully, the doctor was not shy and began to explain things in great detail. My disciples took the opportunity to ask questions, and soon the room was filled with conversation.

  "Eternal Punishment's most obvious symptom is the restriction of movement, like invisible binding wrapping the victim. The afflicted lose all ability to move within 2 to 3 days of falling ill. This is followed by a complete inability to feed oneself and general weakness. Weight loss is also prevalent." Dr. Samole drones on.

  "I heard that blood in the mouth and breathing problems could start in 24 hours from the loss of movement?" Questioned Milhous.

  Yes, it happens within 15 hours for this young man here. Replied the doctor.

  "What treatment did you do after he started to recover? I don't see any lasting signs of blood loss," Milhous said, turning to the Madam.

  "There was a copious amount of blood," states the doctor, tactless as ever.

  "We gave him water mixed with red wine once he could keep the water down," the madam stated.

  The conversation went back and forth about the treatment and care.

  "We are now in uncharted territory as he is the second recorded survivor," the doctor lamented.

  "Oh, that's why you asked for the journal of Master Zecjob, Master!" Somanta’s praised.

  Doctor Samole looked confused until Somanta explained that Master Zecjob was the one who treated the other known survivor. All four huddled around the book, while even the parents tried to sneak a peek.

  I watched all this bustle while my mind raced to figure out what I had to do. First, I need to help the boy and his family. Second, I must delicately inform the king, just enough to appease him without starting a holy war. The church would flock to this boy, and many would use him even if he were a cripple.

  "It looks like it could take a month or more until he regains some movement. " My disciples chatted in the background while that strange tune repeated in my head.

  'Damit all, stay out of my mind,' I cursed. Then I looked toward the boy. His position was unchanged, his eyes watching, and… his fingers were moving!

  “Skarn it!" I cursed loudly.

  “Master, Language!” Admonished Somanta, “Dwarvish even…. “ when her voice cut off, looking at what I was staring at.

  The two women moved quickly to the boy. The mother calls the boy's name.

  Somanta moved swiftly, her usual composure cracking as she knelt beside the boy. Her sharp eyes scanned him, taking in every detail—his pale skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest, and concentrating most of all on the faint twitching of his fingers.

  "He shouldn’t be moving yet..." she murmured, half to herself, half to the mother.

  The mother grasped the boy’s left hand, tears welling in her eyes. "My son, can you hear me?" Her voice wavered with desperate hope.

  The boy’s fingers on his right hand twitched again—this time, the motion was more deliberate, almost measured.

  Somanta’s sharp eyes locked onto the movement. “It’s the same motion… it has a rhythm to it,” she murmured, as if speaking the thought aloud would make sense of the impossible.

  Slowly, her hand moved toward his.

  “No!” I ordered my voice sharper than I intended. “Do not touch him.” The warning hissed from my lips like a curse, thick with urgency.

  Her gaze snapped to me, her expression unreadable. There was something in her eyes—challenge, skepticism—almost as if she were daring me to stop her. Then, with quiet defiance, she reached down and took his right hand.

  The moment her fingers made contact, I heard it.

  A laugh.

  Low and echoing, curling through the edges of my mind like smoke from a dying fire. You never had any choice.

  The gods—watching, waiting, amused.

  The boy’s fingers convulsed violently. The rhythm broke into frantic jerks, his body stiffening. Somanta gasped, but before she could pull away, her fingers twitched in response—her body mirroring his movements against her will.

  …

  Somanta

  Music and Light

  It exploded around me. A performance of a song with instruments unseen and unknown flowed all around me. Brass horns, drums, and woodwinds played a melody with rich, perfect tones and unworldly clarity. All of it wrapped under a strange language singing lyrics in time with the music. Tears filled my eyes, and something within me was stirred as I listened to the words, not understanding them, but somehow grasping their meaning. Those who were called will return to the gods, and this song celebrates that march and calls the listener to join.

  Blackness suddenly overcame me while I leaned heavily on the bed. My vision returned, and I saw the Master holding my hand, his eyes searching me with worry. I was so lost in the moment that it didn't hit me until moments later that I had made a mistake.

  The master stood me up and quickly turned to the boy. The room was silent, devoid of that wonderful music, as everyone looked at me and the master.

  “We should let the child rest and retire to the lounge again,” said Master, ushering the Doctor, the Father, and other disciples out of the room.

  The boy's mother slowly stood, her face shadowed with danger. Her gaze locked onto the Master, her expression demanding answers he must not—or could not—give. A moment later, she turned away, moving to the window. With a slow, deliberate motion, she closed the curtains, allowing darkness to reclaim the room.

  The air thickened, charged with something unseen, something waiting.

  We turned to leave, an unspoken urgency pushing us forward. But just as I stepped into the hallway, I felt a sharp pressure on my back—the Master's hand, shoving me forward.

  A flare of anger shot through me. I stopped dead in my tracks, whirling on him. "I am not a child—" the words were on my tongue when something stopped me cold.

  Shock.

  My breath caught as I stared, unable to move, unable to speak.

  The Master followed my gaze. The boy’s mother did, too.

  Then the Master swore—a guttural, vicious curse.

  "White."

  The word slipped from my lips before my body was shoved backward, the door slamming shut.

  We were standing in the hallway, and I wanted to hammer against the wood, but it was already sealed, and the master was blocking it.

  A terrible realization settled in my chest, sinking like iron into the pit of my stomach.

  "My god... I'm trapped."

  Understanding crashed over me like a tidal wave. The laughter of the gods echoed in my skull. The trap had been set long before I ever stepped into that room.