The blizzard hadn't relented.
Cal awoke to the sound of wind hurling itself against the stone walls, a hollow, mournful roar that had become as constant as breath. The frost clung to the inside of the windowpanes, tracing sharp white veins across the glass like the fingers of some half-dead god still trying to claw its way in.
He sat up slowly, blinking away the remnants of uneasy dreams. The hearth had long gone cold, leaving only a faint glow nestled deep beneath the ash. No sunlight. Just that eternal stormlight—the dull, pale gleam of a sky buried beneath ice and fury.
His clothes, hung neatly over the back of the chair, were stiff with cold. He dressed quickly, teeth gritted against the chill, wrapping the cloak tighter around his shoulders. The ring on his finger was cold, colder than the air itself. It didn't hum today. Just lay there—quiet, inert, but never absent.
As he tugged on his boots, his thoughts wandered unbidden. Back to the harp room. Back to Brewyn's voice, smooth and deep as a cavern. "A flicker more than fate allows…" The words echoed like a refrain, and the ring pulsed once beneath the fabric of his glove, as if it, too, remembered.
Had he made the right choice? Stepping into whatever game Brewyn was playing? He hadn't slept well since. Not because of fear—though that lingered too—but because of the strange certainty that something had shifted. Subtly. Permanently.
A knock broke through the thought.
Sharp. Measured. Not Brewyn.
He opened the door.
A young novice stood there, snow crusting the shoulders of his robe, cheeks red with cold. The boy's breath steamed as he bowed quickly, not meeting Cal's eyes.
"The Headmaster asks for you," he said, voice formal. "He waits in his private chambers."
Then, without another word, the boy turned and vanished down the corridor, his sandals slapping quietly against the stone.
Cal stared after him for a heartbeat. Then he exhaled, slow and steady, and stepped into the hall.
The corridor yawned before him, long and lamplit, its sconces casting golden pools on the floor that did little to soften the cold. The monastery was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that didn't feel like peace, but like waiting.
He moved through it with care, boots muffled by the thin, worn runner stretched along the middle of the hall. Paintings of long-dead abbots lined the walls, their eyes flat and watchful beneath layers of dust. They never seemed to look quite the same way twice.
The deeper into the old wing he went, the more the stone seemed to change. Here, the walls bore carvings older than the monastery itself—sigils and forgotten saints worn down to near-nothing. A place built on older bones.
He passed no one.
That wasn't unusual, exactly. Brewyn's chambers were far from the dormitories and study halls, nestled in a part of the abbey most novices were told never to wander. Still, today it felt different. Like the monastery was holding its breath.
Cal reached the archway that led to Brewyn's wing. The doors were already open. Beyond them, a spiral staircase curved downward, into the hill upon which the monastery had been built.
He'd only been this way once before—years ago, when he was first brought to the cloister and Brewyn had taken his measure. Even then, the air had felt different here. Thicker. Older.
He took the first step. Then the second.
The deeper he went, the warmer it became—not with firelight, but with something else. A hum beneath the stone. A distant heartbeat, slow and steady. He didn't know if it was the ring or the place itself, but it was there, waiting.
At the bottom of the stair, an iron door stood ajar, set into a wall of dark-veined marble. A symbol had been carved into it—an open eye, bisected by a sword.
He didn't knock.
The door swung inward with a soft groan, opening into a chamber darker than the stair behind him. No sooner had the hinges reached their limit than—
Thunk.
Thunk-thunk.
The sharp snap of bowstrings filled the air.
Cal barely registered the noise before he felt it—that uncanny pull in the marrow of his bones. A prickle on the skin of his face. The telltale rush of death approaching at speed.
And then—
Stillness.
The world paused.
The rush of air halted in his lungs. The flickering lanterns froze in mid-dance. Dust motes hung in place like stars in a void. Time itself had shuddered and caught, not shattered but suspended—as if someone had drawn breath and forgotten to let it go.
Before him, suspended in the amber hush, an iron-tipped bolt hovered inches from his eye. Another hung at chest-height. A third angled toward his gut. All three caught mid-flight like flies in honey.
He couldn't move. Not truly. His limbs remained sluggish, unresponsive, as though wrapped in thick cloth. But his mind was clear—more than clear. Lit from within. Every detail sharpened. Every line of motion, every glint of oiled wood and taut string behind the bolts laid bare to him.
There—just inside the doorway—two shapes cloaked in shadow crouched behind heavy furniture. Not monks. Not novices. Killers. They hadn't expected the delay.
Neither had he.
The ring on his finger pulsed once, heatless and cold all at once. Not like fire. Like consequence. As if it weren't granting him time, but borrowing it.
He exhaled—somehow—and chose.
Time resumed.
Whip-snap!
He dropped low.
The bolt meant for his eye passed overhead, slicing through the hair above his ear. The second struck the stone wall with a sharp, sparking crack. The third buried itself in the edge of the open door where his chest had just been.
Shouts rang out. Scraping boots. The hiss of another bolt being notched.
But Cal was already moving.
Cal's fingers brushed the stone at his side, ready to push off into motion again, to strike or run—he didn't yet know which.
Then a voice, smooth as oiled parchment and edged with something dangerous, cut through the tension.
"Magnificent."
The shadows shifted.
"Truly magnificent."
Brewyn stepped into view like a ghost stepping out of a dream—no sound of footsteps, no rustle of robe. Just there, suddenly, where he hadn't been a moment ago. The gleam in his eyes wasn't surprise. It was something worse.
Pride.
"I had hoped," he said, pacing forward, his hands clasped behind his back, "but never imagined it would manifest so sharply. The Ring of Misfortune, they called it. Fools. Always naming what they don't understand."
He turned his gaze to Cal, eyes glittering with a kind of fevered delight.
"Do you understand what you just did, boy?"
His smile widened. "You stopped time."
Brewyn's voice became softer, more contemplative, as he circled Cal, the excitement still evident, but now tempered with a certain reverence.
"A force to reckon with, indeed." He gave a small, amused chuckle. "And for yourself, too, of course. But that... that is enough to reshape things. Enough to turn the tide when others are frozen in place."
He paused, eyes narrowing as he considered the weight of his own words.
"The power that rests in your hands... It's not to be taken lightly. You've just proven that you're not only aware of the game you play—you're now a player, too."
As Brewyn continued, his voice took on a subtle edge, not quite a warning, but more a promise of something far more dangerous. "The world shifts when one dares to stop time. And though you may not yet fully understand the scope of it... soon enough, you'll feel it, in ways you can't yet imagine."
Cal stood, frozen for a moment, still reeling from the realization. The pulse of the ring, the way time had bent to his will, was something beyond what he'd ever expected. His head swam with possibilities, with questions, but more than anything else—disbelief.
As the door creaked open behind him, two of Brewyn's men stepped into view, looking like they had just come from some unseen place. They were silent, moving with calculated ease. They glanced at Cal, offering nothing more than brief nods before slipping past him.
As they passed, one muttered under his breath, the words carried on the air like a secret.
"What a weirdo..."
Cal blinked, the words reaching his ears, and the sting of it caught him in the chest. His blood surged with a sudden heat. Strange? He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't asked for any of this. His hands clenched into fists by his side, his heart racing with frustration, with anger at the way he spoke of him—like some kind of curiosity, a thing to be observed, not a person to worry about their well-being.
"You think this is a game? i could have died!" Cal's voice barely held the edge of restraint. "You just handed me this... power, I didn't ask for this ring. I didn't ask to be thrown into whatever this is." His hands trembled at his sides, but he forced them to still. "So, don't act like I'm some piece on your chessboard."
Brewyn's gaze shifted, his expression unreadable, but there was no trace of anger in his demeanor. Instead, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, though it wasn't one of mockery—it was something colder, something that carried more weight.
"Oh, but you are my boy," Brewyn said softly, his voice carrying a certain calmness that seemed to cut through Cal's rising fury. "And if you want to be significant enough for yourself, you should remember that." His tone wasn't patronizing; it was almost as if he were offering a quiet piece of advice, like a truth he expected Cal to understand.
Cal's teeth ground together, the words stinging more than he cared to admit. But Brewyn continued, unfazed by the tension hanging thick between them.
"You think I didn't know? You think I didn't understand the risk?" Brewyn's eyes glinted, just a hint of amusement in them. "I knew the power would activate if you were in danger. I wanted to see it in action, to watch how you would handle it. To make up my mind about something." His voice softened further, losing the edge of excitement, as if he were revealing something far more important.
Cal's brow furrowed, still struggling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him. To make up his mind about something? The ring had nearly killed him—he had nearly died. And yet, here was Brewyn, as calm and collected as ever, treating the entire thing like a mere demonstration.
"What could you possibly want to decide?" Cal's voice was almost a growl, his words catching in his throat. "What kind of game are you playing, Brewyn?"
Brewyn let out a quiet breath, like he was considering how best to explain himself. He took a step closer, but still kept a careful distance between them, as though recognizing the space Cal needed.
"Not a game, Cal," he said gently. "It's not a game. It's a choice. A path you will have to walk. But the question is whether you're ready for it. Whether you can control it. You've seen what it can do... and you've seen what happens when you don't know how to control it." He gave a small, almost apologetic shrug. "I wanted to see if you were ready. To see if you understood the weight of what you hold."
Cal stood there, breathing heavily, the anger still simmering in his chest. But somewhere beneath it, he felt a sliver of understanding. Brewyn had wanted him to see the power at work—to test him. Not to destroy him. But that didn't make it any easier to swallow.
Cal stood there, his fists still clenched at his sides, the heat of his anger fading into a strange mix of disbelief and reluctant understanding. He could feel the thrum of the ring on his finger, its pulse slow but constant, as though it was aware of everything that had just transpired. The weight of it—the power it held—settled into him, heavier now than it had been before, like an anchor tied around his neck.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched between him and Brewyn, thick and tangible, before Cal finally exhaled sharply through his nose, his breath steadying. His body felt tight, still wound with a tension he couldn't shake, but the storm inside him had calmed, at least for now.
"I… I don't know what to think of any of this," Cal muttered, his voice quieter now, the anger gone. There was a flicker of something else in his chest, a knot of emotion that twisted in a way he couldn't quite place. "But... I guess I have to accept it, don't I?"
He glanced at Brewyn, the older man's expression unreadable, but Cal could feel the weight of the scrutiny on him. Brewyn had tested him, yes, but the more he thought about it, the more Cal realized he had been given a chance—a chance to prove something. To himself, to the ring, to Brewyn.
"I'm grateful, I guess," Cal continued, the words more reluctant than he would've liked. There was a strange, unexpected flicker of excitement beneath the uncertainty. "I mean, this power... it's not something most people ever get the chance to control. Even if I'm scared of it, I can't deny it."
His eyes dropped briefly to the ring, the piece of metal that now bound him to something much greater than he could have ever imagined. He still didn't understand it, not fully, but he felt the pull of it in a way that couldn't be ignored. He was different now. And no matter how much he wished things were simpler, he couldn't deny the way his blood seemed to stir at the thought of what was possible.
"I'm scared," Cal admitted quietly, almost to himself. "But I'm also… I don't know. A little excited." He didn't look at Brewyn as he said it, afraid of the older man's knowing gaze.
Brewyn didn't answer right away. Instead, he just nodded, as if Cal had passed some invisible test.
"Fear and excitement are two sides of the same coin," Brewyn said softly. "You'll learn to live with both, whether you want to or not." His voice carried a certain finality, like there was no turning back from this path, not now. "But remember, Cal—always remember—that power like yours can change everything. And once it's unleashed... there's no going back."
Cal swallowed, nodding slowly as he took the weight of the words in. As unsettling as it was, a part of him knew this was just the beginning. He had crossed a line, and no matter how much he wanted to step back, he couldn't. Not anymore.
Cal's voice broke the silence, the question hanging in the air with a weight he hadn't quite anticipated.
"What was it that you needed to decide, Brewyn?" he asked, his tone more curious now, a lingering trace of caution in it. "You said you wanted to make up your mind about something. What exactly?"
Brewyn's gaze never left him, but the faint smile that had played at the edges of his lips seemed to vanish as he considered the question. He stepped back, looking as if he were mulling over something deeper, something that had been in the works long before Cal had even arrived in the monastery.
"A mission," Brewyn replied, his voice lower now, more deliberate. "Something... delicate. Dangerous, too, if done wrong." His eyes flicked toward the window, his mind momentarily elsewhere, as if weighing something far beyond the present conversation. "I needed to know if you had the fortitude, the will, to face it. And, more importantly, whether you could handle the power that's now yours." His words were measured, and Cal could hear the weight in them.
"A mission?" Cal echoed, surprised by the sudden shift. "What kind of mission?"
Brewyn's demeanor shifted, the warmth in his voice replaced by an ice-cold seriousness that made the air in the room feel denser, heavier. The faint smile was gone entirely now, replaced by a sharp, calculating edge.
"I think it's time I tell you some things, Cal," Brewyn said, his tone lowering, as though the weight of the words were meant to be felt. "Things that you need to understand, but which are not for the ears of anyone else. Secrets, you understand? Not just for your sake, but for the sake of everyone involved." His gaze locked onto Cal's, unwavering, his expression hardening with every syllable.
Cal's heart thudded in his chest, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach as he watched Brewyn's change in demeanor. There was no humor in his voice now, no room for games. This was serious. Life and death serious.
"These are secrets," Brewyn continued, "that are worth more than any treasure, worth more than your life, even. You must keep them. Above everything else, above anything you value. And if I ever catch wind that you've spoken of them to anyone…" His eyes darkened, his voice colder than the stone walls surrounding them. "I will punish you, Cal. Harshly. Do you understand?"
The threat hung in the air like a weighty cloud, but it wasn't a threat to be taken lightly. Brewyn had proven that before.
Cal swallowed, the tension in his chest tightening further, but he nodded, his voice steady despite the unease crawling up his spine.
"I understand," he said, his tone serious, reflecting the gravity of the situation.
Brewyn seemed to study him for a moment longer, as though ensuring that Cal's response was genuine. Then, without another word, he stepped closer, his voice lowering even further.
Brewyn's gaze hardened as he saw the gravity of the moment settle over Cal. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his voice lowering even more, as if the words he was about to speak were meant to crack open the very foundations of Cal's understanding of the world.
"There are gods in this world, Cal," Brewyn began, his voice quiet but edged with authority. "How many, I'm not sure. Some say there are countless, others claim only a handful. But the truth is, they are everywhere. And not all of them are benevolent. They are not all good, nor all bad. They are forces unto themselves—sentient beings, older than anything you've ever encountered."
Cal's stomach churned as the weight of the words pressed down on him. Gods. True gods. He had grown up hearing tales of gods in passing, but never had he imagined them to be real—let alone so complex and dangerous.
Brewyn's expression remained unreadable, his tone steady as he continued.
"These gods shape the world as they see fit," he said, each word deliberate, as though he were revealing something that could shatter the very foundation of reality. "They're not passive watchers, no. They move things, influence events, twist destinies. Their reach extends far beyond what we can understand. And there are groups—secret societies, organizations—devoted to them."
He took a step forward, his voice thickening with the weight of what he was about to reveal.
"There are guilds of mages, warriors, and even merchants who serve these gods. Some are loyal, some are opportunistic, but all of them have one thing in common—they shape the world to serve their own purposes, whether they admit it or not."
Cal could feel his heart rate quicken, the enormity of the words sending shockwaves through his mind. Gods, guilds, secret societies? His entire world—the one he had thought so solid and unchanging—was being torn apart before him.
Brewyn gave him a sharp, knowing look, as if anticipating his next thought.
"You and the other boys at the monastery," Brewyn continued, his voice growing darker, "know nothing of the outside world. You've been isolated for a reason. The monastery is meant to shield you from the things that go on beyond these walls. You've been kept here in the dark, away from the real world, away from what's truly happening out there."
Cal blinked, his breath hitching slightly. Everything he had known, everything he had thought to be true, was now crumbling.
"You're telling me we're prisoners?" Cal's voice was barely above a whisper, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the enormity of what Brewyn had just revealed.
Brewyn's expression softened, but only slightly, the edge still sharp.
"Not prisoners, Cal," Brewyn replied quietly. "But you've been kept in the dark for a reason. And now, it's time for you to learn the truth. The world is far more dangerous, far more complicated than you can imagine. And you—" He paused, locking eyes with Cal, "—you are about to be thrust into the middle of it."
Brewyn's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he took a step back, as if weighing something in his mind. The question seemed almost casual, but the weight of it was undeniable.
"Which kingdom do you live in, Cal?" Brewyn asked, his voice low, his gaze sharp.
"Roven," Cal answered quickly, his mind still spinning with the strange revelations. "I live in Roven."
Brewyn nodded slowly, his fingers tapping lightly against his chin as he processed the response. "Roven… A place of power, full of rich history, but also riddled with secrets. Do you know anything about it, about the world outside of these walls?"
Cal's gaze flickered downward, unsure of how to respond. His mind felt like it was racing, but the truth was, he didn't know anything beyond what he had been told or what he had read in the few, often confusing, books available to him.
"I know… there are cities," he said hesitantly, his voice laced with uncertainty. "People live in crowded, stick-together homes, all packed together like… like they have no choice but to be close." He paused, a bitter edge to his words. "That's all I've heard. All I know."
Brewyn tilted his head, his expression unreadable but still intent. "And what else? Surely you must have learned something more."
Cal shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. "I haven't learned much at all. Not really. I've been here my whole life—locked away in the monastery. The books I've copied… they're all in foreign languages. I don't even understand them. And the translations I've made… they're… they're censored. It's like I'm reading half-truths, filtered through someone else's lens before they ever reach me." He shrugged, as if to say there was no point in pretending anymore. "I'm not even sure what's real and what's not."
Brewyn watched him closely, his lips thinning into a tight line. "Censored, you say? A deliberate effort to keep you in the dark."
Cal nodded grimly. "That's what it feels like. Even the books I copy... it's like someone doesn't want me to know the truth. Or perhaps they don't want anyone to. And the censored bits—every time I read them, I can't help but think there's something more, something hidden beneath the surface." His words trailed off as a wave of frustration washed over him. He had always felt like something was missing. Always.
Brewyn's eyes gleamed with something like recognition, but there was no sympathy in his gaze. "You were kept here for a reason, Cal. For your own protection, but also to keep you ignorant of the world beyond. The outside world is a complicated place. Dangerous." He paused, almost as if weighing whether to say more. "But now that you know the truth, you'll have to decide if you're ready to face it."
Cal swallowed hard, his thoughts swirling. He had spent his entire life in this monastery, copying books, learning only what was allowed. Now, faced with a glimpse of the outside world—of secrets, gods, and a power he barely understood—he didn't know what to think anymore. He was angry. But he was also curious. And terrified. What did it mean to be part of something much larger than he could have ever imagined?
Cal's brow furrowed, the question escaping his lips before he could stop himself. "Why didn't the Church of Moar let us know about the outside world? Why keep us in the dark?" His voice was a mix of frustration and confusion, as if trying to make sense of a puzzle with pieces that just wouldn't fit.
Brewyn's gaze darkened, a shadow crossing his face as he paused for a moment, considering the best way to answer. When he spoke, it was with a certain coldness, a clarity that felt more like a warning than an explanation.
"Everyone here, except for me and the Inquisitors," Brewyn said, his voice almost flat, "is livestock. Livestock, Cal. Manpower for whatever the Church might need. If the people here were allowed to know about the outside world, about what's really going on… they wouldn't be so tolerant. They would question. And if they question too much, they stop being useful."
Cal's stomach twisted at the words. He had always sensed something wrong about the way the monastery operated, but hearing it spoken aloud—having Brewyn, of all people, lay it out so bluntly—felt like a punch to the gut.
"Manpower for what?" Cal asked, the question slipping out with a mix of dread and disbelief.
Brewyn's face grew grim, his expression hardening. He didn't answer immediately, his silence more telling than any words he could have said. The weight of it hung in the air, suffocating.
Finally, Brewyn's gaze met Cal's, but there was no warmth in his eyes. No reassurance. Only the quiet promise of things he wasn't yet ready to reveal.
The silence stretched on.