The snow no longer felt cold.
It didn't feel like anything at all.
Seth lay motionless, half-buried in the crimson slush, eyes glazed, jaw slack, the lower half of his body little more than a memory. His spine twitched like it hadn't gotten the memo. His fingers still clenched instinctively around a broken blade.
Across the road, the carriage burned in silence. Thick black smoke curled toward the sky like a funeral banner. The girl inside screamed, but it sounded muffled now — distant, like a dream remembered through fog. Men in jagged armor were moving toward her. Slow. Methodical.
Seth didn't move.
Couldn't.
Couldn't scream, either. His lungs were filling with blood.
And still, that damn chant echoed in his head:
"The Gods are Supreme. The Gods Choose. The Gods Provide. The Gods Rule."
The sacred creed whispered in his head like an echo passed down through a thousand mouths.
He spat blood. Even now?
He never prayed.
Not when he starved in the alleys. Not when the priests passed judgment. Not when he sold his dignity for a crust of bread.
There was no mother to cry for him. No father to protect him. No family waiting at the end of the road. Just empty hands, bruised ribs, and a world that didn't care if he lived or rotted.
He was born abandoned. Raised by frostbite and hunger. Cradled only by silence.
He didn't believe in gods. He believed in pain. And pain never broke its promises.
He would've laughed if his mouth worked properly.
The Gods, huh?
He never prayed. Not once.
Not when the alley dogs ripped meat from his legs as a kid.
Not when he was a punching bag for noble kids.
Not when he sold his dignity for a piece of bread.
Why start now?
Why kneel now?
Why give the bastards the satisfaction?
He spat — or tried to. Just blood this time.
The light dimmed. His vision tunneled into a single point. The smell of smoke, iron, and burning horse hair curled up his nose.
Then—
A voice.
Low. Rough. Amused. The kind that smiled while kicking you in the ribs.
"Hah… there you are. Took your sweet time. I've been stuck in your dumb little soul for sixteen years, brat."
"Let's raise some hell."
He awoke.
Not in the snow.
Not anywhere natural.
The world around him was a static painting — frozen mid-moment. Colorless. Silent. The wind didn't blow. The trees didn't sway. The blood from his wounds hovered in the air like suspended rubies.
And from his back—
Chains.
Not figurative ones. Not metaphorical burdens of sin or trauma or guilt.
Real ones.
Dozens of black, glistening chains slithered from his spine like they were alive. Like they were tasting the air. Like they were waiting.
Then they moved.
He didn't move them. He couldn't. They acted of their own accord.
Like snakes. Like hounds. Like demons let off their leash.
And then—
They attacked.
What happened next wasn't a battle. It wasn't even a slaughter.
It was theater.
The chains danced, tore, coiled, and crushed. They cut through armor like it was wet cloth. Ripped men from horseback. Slammed them into trees until bone exploded from skin. Screams rang out — sharp, panicked, primal — and then stopped short, gurgled out by blood and steel. The killers were being killed.
Seth watched it all, horrified. Screaming inside.
He couldn't.
Because he wasn't the conductor.
He was the instrument.
And the performance had just begun
When he came to again, the world was sideways.
Or maybe he was.
The air reeked of incense and iron. His wrists were cuffed — not the rusty iron kind, but gilded ones etched with symbols that made his skin itch. The kind they used in stories. The kind that made people disappear.
The walls of the carriage were lined with holy sigils. Every one of them pulsed faintly with a golden light.
This wasn't transport.
This was containment.
He tried to shift, and pain bloomed in his spine. Like something had burrowed into him — and liked it there.
He groaned.
Then—
Clank.
The carriage door creaked open.
In stepped a man clad in immaculate white armor, sun-emblems embossed into the pauldrons. He had the kind of stride that belonged to saints in stained glass — radiant, righteous, and absolutely ready to ruin your day.
Then he grinned.
"Yo. You look like shit."
Seth blinked.
"…Huh?"
The knight — if that's what he was — dropped into a squat like they were old friends catching up. His armor creaked, his breath fogged, and his hair was a windswept mess of golden strands. He looked like a goddamn painting. If paintings had bad posture and cussed a lot. Wasn't he supposed to be a Holy Knight?
"Name's Astrid. You got one?"
Seth coughed. "Seth."
Astrid pointed. "Cool. That's a heretic name. Anyway. You're lucky."
Seth squinted. "Am I?"
"Sure. You were supposed to be corpse-chow. But the merchant girl — Saria something? — said you saved her. You died saving her. That kind of thing gets noticed."
"…I died?"
"Kinda. Not all the way. Just enough."
Astrid leaned forward and tapped the glowing cuffs.
"These are divine. Usually used to bind witches. Or Chosen. Guess which one you are."
Seth didn't reply.
Astrid tilted his head. "You've been marked. Back's got a big ol' sigil now. Black as pitch. Spiked like a crown. Ugly thing. Only shows up when a god claims you."
He paused, smile fading just a little.
"This one? A Shadow God. The worst kind."
Seth stared at the floor.
The gods never cared about him. Never noticed him.
Now one did.
Of course it would be that one.
"…Why me?"
Astrid shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe your soul screamed the loudest."
The silence between them stretched. Outside, distant bells tolled. The Holy City must've been nearby.
Seth's throat tightened. "What happens now?"
Astrid stood. Cracked his neck.
His smile didn't come back this time.
"…Now? You get tried. Judged. Executed."
Seth's heart dropped.
Astrid reached for the door.
"But hey—" he added casually, "—depending on how loud you scream, the chains might break loose again. Could be fun."
Then he stepped out and slammed the door shut.
"I'm fucked.."