King Salis's gaze shifts beyond Voryn, piercing into the impenetrable darkness where the Infernal Warden has retreated. His voice cuts through the silence, sharp and commanding.
"Bring the woman to us."
From the shadows comes a low, defiant growl, a sound that reverberates like the grinding of whetstone. Salis's expression hardens as he reaches into the folds of his dark velvet robes. He withdraws a medallion, intricate and ancient, etched with an intricate design Voryn vaguely recognizes. The king grips it tightly, his knuckles whitening, and repeats his command.
The growl deepens, tinged with something primal and unwilling. A moment later, a pained roar echoes, shaking loose fragments of dust from the cavern walls. Then silence.
It takes time, but eventually, the woman emerges from the shadows. Her movements are reluctant, but her hard-flexed muscles are coiled like an animal ready to attack.
Voryn steps toward her quickly, his voice low and guarded. The space between them feels like a fissure in the chasm of what's better left unsaid.
"What's happening?" she asks, her voice a rasp, the first words she's spoken to him since her warning years ago.
"A bargain," Voryn replies curtly. "I have what I wanted—and secured your freedom."
Her low laugh is humorless, a sharp crack in the tense atmosphere. "Freedom ain't a gift, nor a prize to be won. It's seized—by blade or by wit. And ye have neither."
Voryn exhales, a bitter sound of agreement. "There will be conditions, no doubt. Hidden or otherwise. But what matters is we're out of these depths."
Her gaze darts over his shoulder, locking onto the king, who stands a few paces away, unmoving but watchful. Her expression twists, a mix of suspicion and disdain.
"So what now?" she spits. "You've struck a deal for my freedom, and now ye think I owe ye soul and sword? That I'll spill blood to settle yer debts?"
Voryn's voice remains steady. "My debts are mine alone. I need no help clearing them. Whatever this bargain costs, it will not fall on me. What you do with your freedom is yours to decide."
Her response is unexpected. She steps back, shaking her head slowly, shadows pooling around her as though drawn to her retreat. "I can't," she says, her voice trembling yet firm. "I won't. Mark me words—I'm a far better soul down here, in this cursed pit, than I'd ever be out there. And if this be redemption ye offer, then I'm the last wretch who deserves it."
Voryn's jaw tightens as he swallows hard, her words striking deep. His reply comes slowly, a confused confession. "I don't believe bad acts make someone a bad person. I think… not regretting them does."
Her eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Do ye regret all that's brought ye to this sorry state?"
The question hangs in the air, unanswered. Voryn's silence stretches long enough to feel like its own response. Finally, his voice breaks through, low and heavy. "I don't even know your name."
She hesitates. And after a long pause, she speaks.
"My name is Arla," she says at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "At least… that's who I would've liked to have been."
It all shifts into place for him now. The reason she never engaged with Zias, never allowed herself to reach for something she craved—because she convinced herself she wasn't worthy. And perhaps, given what he's heard, she wasn't. But that was not for him to render judgment.
She makes it easier for him, starting to retreat, stepping back into the shadows. Before vanishing completely, her voice lingers like a haunting echo.
"Do me a favour," she says with her salty voice. "When ye set foot on that shore... give the sea a kiss for me, will ye?" she asks, as if the sea itself is the only thing that ever truly belonged to her. And now, she's asking him to taste its freedom on her behalf. Something that feels like a prayer—quiet, desperate, and eternal.
He says nothing, watching her dissolve into the dark, and turns back to the king.
The order comes without hesitation. "Remove his brand."
The infernal warden steps forward with grim purpose, its talons latching onto the back of Voryn's neck, dragging him down to his knees. A guttural chant follows, and the heat comes, relentless and consuming. It's a pain he remembers, the searing agony of the emblem he'd had removed once before, but now, it courses through him with far greater intensity—every nerve ablaze. Back then his scream ripped through the air until his voice splintered, broken by the force of the agony. But now, only labored breaths escape him, shallow and ragged.
At last, the warden releases him. Voryn collapses forward for a breath, the king's voice cutting through the haze.
"Come."
The light outside Blackspire is a pale shadow, dimming into the last embers of evening. As Voryn stumbles out from the depths, he feels the pull of the sea—a distant promise. The air is thick with the taste of salt, and the fog that wraps the island feels less suffocating in the twilight. It's a momentary relief, though he doesn't dare look back at the ship, at the soldiers. His gaze is fixed only on the water, the expanse that stretches endlessly before him.
He takes one step. Another. And then, his feet kiss the waterline, and the cold reaches up his legs, biting into him like the grasp of an old ghost. He smiles, a thin, bitter thing, and plunges deeper, until the cold numbs everything inside him.
For the first time in over a decade, the ice cuts through him, and for a fleeting moment, he is free.
A custodian steps forward, ready to pull him from the water, but the king raises a hand and halts him.
"Spare him this moment."
It isn't until the last glimmer of twilight fades, and the chill seeps into his bones, that Voryn finally emerges, breaking the surface with a shudder. He approaches, placing his wrists together, signaling that he is ready to be bound.
"You're no longer a prisoner," the king decrees. "No longer disgraced, but divinely appointed."
Over the brim of the railing on the imperial ship, a figure draws to its waist. The Warmaster. The sight of him makes Voryn pause, making even the king follow his line of sight.
"He would never admit it," the king murmurs. "But his advocacy was rather ardent in regards to your candidacy. You weren't my first choice, but you were the right one. The only one."
Voryn looks away sharply, severing eye contact with meaningful apathy. Even as he boards the ship, his silence is an impenetrable wall. A custodian—a familiar face, one that once threw him into a cell, now ushers him down narrow corridors, guiding him to a cabin that gleams with the polished wealth of the kingdom. He's given a choice of a new outfit, fine and fitting, as well as his old, time-worn armour and gear. He recoils from it all. The grandeur suffocates him as he steps back, retreating to the primary deck once more.
Across the deck, the Warmaster speaks to one of his soldiers—his new Blademarshal, perhaps. Their words fall away the moment the Warmaster's sharp eyes lock onto Voryn's. The air between them thickens as the Warmaster dismisses his conversation, wordlessly acknowledging the presence of the man he's sought to shape.
Voryn moves, crossing the deck without a glance at the Warmaster, whose gaze follows him like a shadow. He finds a nameless crewman, their hushed conversation brief, an exchange full of meaning that only they understand. The sailor gestures toward the bowels of the ship, signaling for Voryn to follow. Without hesitation, Voryn trails the man, descending deeper where the air is sings of the scent of salt and metal.
At last, they reach the cargo hold. The barrels of gritstout are stacked high—rows of the Wyrmsoul firebrew, a drink as rough as the creatures that craft it. Made by shapeshifters who twist into serpentine forms, the brew is known for its fiery bite, a smoky, acrid flavor that coats the mouth with the taste of iron and stone.
Voryn pulls a barrel free and drinks deeply, the firebrew scorching its way down his throat. He doesn't stop. Serving after serving, the burn grows, and the world around him blurs into something unreachable. By the time the ship sways beneath his feet, he can hardly stand, the weight of the drink numbing him, silencing the chaos of his thoughts.