Lokey paused in the doorway, watching his sister as she prepared dinner. Hela stopped mid-motion and looked up at him. One glance was enough—his eyes were full of worry, searching, almost asking permission without words.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  “Go,” she said gently. “Whatever it is, go. Tell us about it when you get back.” She smiled, soft but knowing. “You care for her, whether you admit it or not. You can hide a lot, big brother—but never when you care about someone.”

  Lokey exhaled, relief flickering across his face.

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Hela added. “I’ll let Artemis know when he gets back from the dungeon. He and Petra should be back in a few hours.”

  “Thanks, sis,” Lokey said quietly. “Tell the old man I’ll be back too.”

  Brokk snorted from the forge, wiping sweat from his brow. “Don’t worry about me, boy. I’m old, not dead.” He jabbed a thumb toward the door. “Now get going. I want to start teaching you runesmithing when you get back. You’ve got the damn basics down—now it’s time to push yourself for new skills. So hurry the fuck up and come back already.”

  Lokey grinned despite the tension, then turned and walked out. He spoke quietly with the guard waiting outside, and moments later, the two disappeared down the road.

  Far above, in a vast hall of light and stone, gods of every size and shape stood gathered. Power pressed against the air like a storm waiting to break.

  A short, sharp-featured god with pointed ears paced back and forth, glaring at a towering figure wreathed in flame—a god shaped like a burning bird.

  “So,” the smaller god snapped, “you decided to overlook what your believers were doing?”

  The bird-god’s fiery eyes narrowed. “What mortals do in my name is none of my concern. As long as they grow stronger and become good soldiers for the wars to come.”

  Sera could stand it no longer.

  “You don’t care?” she demanded, stepping forward, her voice cutting through the hall. “These people give you their faith—their lives—and you don’t care if they become monsters? Don’t you want them to be decent? What they did was unworthy of any god, even a war god!”

  The bird-god turned on her sharply. “And I lost many priests to the actions of one of yours. Why are you not standing here being judged?”

  Before Sera could respond, the short god raised a hand, forcing silence.

  “This gathering is not for petty grievances,” he said coldly. “You are here because you instructed your churches to side with the Eastern Kingdom. We do not take sides in mortal squabbles.”

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  The bird-god scoffed. “We need fighters. The system was made to empower our people—to make soldiers. But it failed. Only a handful rise as warriors; the rest use it to better their lives.” His wings flared. “The king of the Eastern Kingdom forces every able-bodied man and woman to train. He uses the system as it was intended. His armies grow stronger every year. We should back his campaign. The world will be better prepared for what’s coming.”

  Sera’s fury burned bright.

  “So you would abandon the rest of the world for a few more fighters?” she snapped. “That king believes in nothing but battle. You think he would ever fight for us?”

  The hall fell into uneasy silence.

  The guard led Lokey through the castle grounds, past repaired walls and into the great hall where, months ago, the baron had ordered Hela’s death. Much of the stone had been mended, but the marble floor still bore scars. Near the dais, the stone remained cracked and stained where Lokey’s hammer had ended a guard’s life that night.

  But it wasn’t the hall that stopped him.

  It was the man waiting within it.

  The baron—once proud, commanding, unyielding—now looked hollow. His shoulders sagged beneath an invisible weight, his face drawn tight with fear and exhaustion. In that moment, Lokey didn’t see a ruler.

  He saw a father.

  When the baron lifted his head, Lokey saw tears clinging to the corners of his eyes. His voice came out broken, stripped of authority.

  “You have to save her… please.”

  He took a step forward, hands trembling.

  “She is your friend. From what I’ve heard, you two are close—closer than I realized.” His breath shuddered. “I know I don’t deserve anything from you. I listened to the church. I judged your sister without knowing her, and that mistake will follow me to my grave.”

  His voice cracked completely.

  “But now they’ve taken my daughter.” He swallowed hard, as if the words themselves were cutting him. “They threaten to deliver her to the Eastern Kingdom—to force me to surrender my lands. To break my people.”

  He held out a parchment with shaking hands.

  “Please, Sir Lokey,” he whispered. “Don’t let them use my daughter to hurt my people.”

  Lokey stepped forward slowly. The baron’s desperation was naked, unguarded. He rested a firm hand on the man’s shoulder and met his gaze.

  “My lord,” Lokey said evenly, “I will do everything in my power to save Asra. But I need to know everything you know. How are you certain this was the head priest’s doing?”

  The baron pressed the parchment into his hand. “I recognize the writing. The same hand that accused your sister. He’s scrambling to save himself—because Hela exposed him. Even his own second priest has turned against him. Toby, I believe. A regular at your home?”

  Lokey nodded. “Aye. Father Toby comes often.”

  The baron sagged back, defeated. “Then you understand. If anyone can undo this scheme… it must be you.”

  Lokey left the hall with the letter heavy at his side—and the baron’s plea heavier still in his chest. Asra’s face lingered in his thoughts: her sharp wit, her laughter, the spark in her eyes. His pace quickened.

  By the time he reached home, the sun was low, bleeding red and gold across the sky. In the garden, Hela knelt among her herbs, dirt on her hands, while Brother Toby worked beside her. Lokey paused only a moment before calling out.

  “Hey, sis,” he said, voice tight. “We need to talk. Bring the priest.”

  Hela stiffened at his tone. She rose quickly, Toby following without question.

  Inside, Artemis was shrugging out of his armor, sweat still clinging to him from another reckless dive.

  “Art,” Lokey said firmly, “when you’re done, come in here.”

  He moved to the kitchen and sat heavily at the table. One by one, they joined him—Hela and Toby still dusted with soil, Artemis folding his arms.

  Only then did Lokey pull the parchment free and place it on the table.

  His voice was low, iron-hard.

  “They took Asra.”