Damian’s heart hammered in his chest. This man was a god? He looked nothing like Nephret. She had been vast, radiant, made of stars. This man was thin, old—frail, even. Yet they hadn’t been able to perceive him, like he’d existed just outside their conception of reality. Damian had even thanked him for a compliment without realizing it. How long had he been there? There was no way to know.

  “It’s customary to bow in the presence of divinity,” Marduk said, his lips curving into a faint frown.

  A memory flashed—villagers in Bekham throwing themselves to their knees when Nephret appeared—and suddenly Damian’s body snapped into obedience. His knees slammed against the floor, and he bent over them, trembling. He tried to push up, to move, but nothing obeyed. When he tried to force a growl, it came out as a quiet whimper.

  “Interesting,” Marduk purred. He stepped closer, and a faint clinking of chains followed in his wake. “You possess a strong will, [Chosen One].”

  “Let him go,” Konrad demanded, though his voice wavered.

  “As you wish.”

  Control returned to Damian’s body, and he scrambled to his feet, backing away from the old man now standing only a few feet away. Why hadn’t his [Dangersense: The Chosen One] triggered until the last moment? Unless... he wasn’t in danger. At least, not yet.

  As though the thought itself had triggered it, the skill buzzed to life like a bundle of dry sticks and tar catching flame.

  “Let’s take a stroll, shall we?” Marduk said, raising a hand.

  “We’re not going any—” Konrad started, but the world blurred, cutting him off.

  Damian staggered. They were suddenly outside, in the middle of the street. Before he could process it, Konrad shoved him, pointing ahead. “Run!”

  His feet tangled beneath him as he tried to break into a sprint. They didn’t make it three steps before cold metal coiled around his wrists, tightening until Damian cried out. Chains—real, gleaming chains—snapped around his arms and Konrad’s, dragging them back to where they’d started. The links slithered across the cobblestones, vanishing beneath Marduk's robes. As Damian watched, they moved in slow, sinuous waves, alive.

  Damian screamed at a passerby. It was a busy street, like most in the city, but no one even glanced his way.

  Marduk scoffed. “Please, don’t be pathetic. You will treat me with respect. You will hear what I say. And you will see what I show you.”

  Damian’s voice caught in his throat, Marduk's command pressing down on him like divine law. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t protest, couldn’t even imagine disobeying. Forced to focus on Marduk instead of escape, he noticed more unsettling details. When Marduk was still, he was utterly still—even his robes froze, statue-like. Only the chains moved, idly slithering from beneath his robe and pooling around his bare feet like restless serpents.

  When he did move, it drew the eye like gravity. Marduk gestured with a single hand toward the building behind him. Damian gawped as he realized they were back at the orphanage. Somehow, they’d made it from his lodgings to the orphanage in the blink of an eye.

  “Konrad, I appreciate you showing Damian around the orphanage,” Marduk said quietly. “Saves me the trouble. Do you remember how long you were here?”

  From the corner of his eye, Damian saw Konrad’s face tighten, his jaw locking hard. For a moment, he said nothing. Marduk arched a single bushy white eyebrow, and Konrad exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Eight years.”

  “So unspecific,” Marduk said mildly. “This is Saint Meridith’s Orphanage for the Lost and Disenfranchised, to be specific. Home to Konrad Findel for three thousand two hundred and ten days—again, for specificity. He gained his first levels in—ah, one moment.”

  The god gestured again, and Damian’s stomach lurched as the world shifted around them. Suddenly they stood in one of the dorm rooms, lined with metal-framed beds, each tucked tight with cotton blankets. Standing closer than he had before, Damian realized he’d never seen beds so square and perfect.

  “In this bed,” Marduk continued, pointing to one of them, “[Alchemical Enthusiast], level three. Even then, you weren’t entirely lost.”

  The chains bit into Damian’s wrists, but it was the god’s presence that truly held him. With a titanic effort, he tore his gaze away for a glimpse of Konrad. He was pale, sweating, sagging against his own restraints, looking seconds from being sick himself.

  “[Aspect of the Chosen],” Damian muttered, figuring it couldn’t hurt.

  The voice of the Great Game whispered in his mind the instant the words left his lips.

  >Temporary Skill [My Mind Is A Temple] Granted!

  Suddenly, the urge to look at Marduk vanished, and the chains snapped tight around Damian’s wrists until it felt like his bones might shatter. He gasped in pain, straining against them, but he may as well have been trying to move a mountain. His head jerked back toward Marduk as the god gave a low, displeased harrumph.

  “I don’t fault you for trying. But please—I’m a god.” Marduk's voice was quiet, uncaring. His eyes were gray and hard as steel, betraying the coldness under the gentle whisper. “Where was I? Ah yes, your first levels. And your first taste of illicit alchemy: a nip of somnara, offered by one of your bunkmates. Tell me, do you remember what it felt like? Your first time?”

  Damian watched Konrad grit his teeth, fighting the urge to answer. He lasted only a few seconds. “Yes. I remember.”

  “Indeed?” Marduk murmured, his tone almost curious. “Did you know then that it would spark a cascade of alchemical addiction that would consume the rest of your life? No need to answer.”

  Again, the world blurred. But this time, it was different. Before, it had been pure disorientation, too chaotic to grasp. Now Damian could feel the chains tugging on his wrists, dragging him across the world at blistering speed. Or maybe through the world was more accurate. They tore through walls, through people, through everything between him and their destination, all in a blink.

  Damian’s knees shook as they came to a stop inside Konrad’s lab. It was exactly as they’d left it a day ago. Even the empty crates the mushrooms had come in still sat on a table. Marduk drifted past the rows of glassware, running his wrinkled fingers along the fragile tubes.

  “Such talent, wasted,” he muttered. “You could have made an impressive [Alchemist], had you set your sights on nobler goals. Level 40, certainly within reach. Perhaps even 50. But instead, you squandered it all on—”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself,” Konrad snapped. Damian flinched, half-expecting to see him ripped apart, strangled by nothing, or obliterated on the spot for daring to speak against this... this being. But nothing happened. “It was your Word that backed me into this corner, you miserable, controlling shit.”

  For a moment, the room was filled with a heavy silence. Marduk turned slowly, staring at Konrad. Damian braced for the inevitable violence, but it didn’t come. Marduk only tilted his head, studying Konrad like something newly curious.

  Konrad took that as permission to keep going. “Am I wrong? I followed your Word. I looked out for others. I made the best of a shitty hand, and what did I get for it? Arrested for ‘participation in a public disturbance,’ for saving my friend from getting his teeth kicked in. Arrested again for stealing scraps of bread from a waste bin. Ida was starving because the orphanage run by your fucking order wouldn’t feed her. Wasted my talent? You pretentious, pompous bastard. The guild turned me away because your Word punished me for doing what I had to do to survive.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Damian trembled uncontrollably, paralyzed by the weight of his anxiety. They were dead. They were absolutely dead, just waiting for Marduk to get bored. And Konrad was poking the bear. Damian wanted to scream, to tear free of the freezing chains and run—but they were iron and ice, unyielding no matter how hard he pulled.

  “That’s your excuse?” Marduk asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Your life was hard?”

  Konrad blanched.

  “You think that makes you special?” Marduk continued. His voice rose only slightly, but the quiet weight beneath it terrified Damian more than any scream could. “You think being abandoned makes you owed something? You think your life was misery? Let me show you what suffering truly looks like.”

  The god extended a hand and grasped at empty air. A chain shimmered into existence before his fingers closed around it. With a single, fluid motion, he yanked, and they were dragged through the world again. This time they stopped in a wide, warmly lit room with a fireplace, a couch, several chairs, and walls lined with bookshelves. A man in a crisp blue uniform sat on the couch, staring into the fire. A woman stood beside him, screaming.

  No sooner had Damian regained his balance than her voice cut through the room. “—the job first! You’re not a husband; you’re certainly not being a fucking father. What’s next, a work wife? A [Wench]? I will never, ever, love you so long as you’re a [Watch Captain] before you’re a husband!”

  The man didn’t move. He didn’t even look at his wife. Slowly, he raised a cup of amber liquid—real glass, not clay or tin—to his lips and took a measured sip. His wife’s scowl deepened.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  “I have a duty to the city,” the man said in a gravelly voice. His beard and slight gut reminded Damian of [Watch Captain] Heidolf back in Skogheim, and—despite the situation—he found himself wondering if all [Watch Captains] looked like this. “I have to honor the Word, above all else. I’m doing what I can, where I can.”

  The [Watch Captain’s] wife stepped forward and slapped the glass from his hand. It hit the carpet, spilling what remained of the drink. Only then did he look up, his face set in an expression that might as well have been carved from stone.

  “You’re no man at all. I married a golem,” she spat, then turned on her heel and stormed out.

  The man sighed, bowed his head, and clasped his hands together, mumbling under his breath. It took Damian a moment to realize he was praying. Marduk stepped closer, toes sinking into the alcohol-soaked carpet, and laid a hand atop the man’s head.

  “[Watch Captain] Karl Brücker, level 33,” Marduk said quietly. “Fifty-two years old, thirty-four of those spent in service to the city and my Word. Given up at birth, raised in the same orphanage as you. He’s lost three daughters and a son, fought through alcoholism, been beaten nearly to death by [Thugs] twice, refused bribes that would’ve made him rich, and remains married to a woman who despises him—and cheats on him—out of duty.”

  When Marduk turned to Konrad, Damian caught the faintest flicker of anger in the god’s lined face. Konrad licked his lips, the first nervous tic Damian had ever seen from him.

  “This man dreamed of being a [Painter],” Marduk said. “But he took the hand he was dealt and turned it into a life of service. Same orphanage, same addiction, same problems. Perhaps worse. Remind me—what’s your excuse?”

  Marduk waited, patient as stone, while Konrad glared daggers at him.

  It was Damian who broke the silence, his voice hoarse, his tongue thick in his mouth. “He’s miserable.”

  “What?” Marduk asked, his face twitching.

  “He’s miserable,” Damian repeated. He nodded toward the man, his bound arms useless. “He’s suffering. He’s unhappy. He’s praying to you for help. But you won’t, will you? This is how you want him, isn’t it? Is this how you want everyone—miserable and praying to you for help? You’re saying Konrad should’ve just accepted misery and died?”

  For the first time, Marduk's face cracked, his calm mask twisting into a snarl. With a flick of his hand, the chains yanked Damian across the floor, his boots scraping uselessly against the carpet. He stopped inches from Marduk, close enough to try a headbutt. He didn’t try.

  “Life is misery, child,” Marduk growled. “You mortals make it so. You take any system, any paradise, no matter how perfect, and rot it from within. I take that misery and build something lasting out of it—a house of brick and law, bound by the mortar of order. Or would you rather the world be like your friend here, wasting what little time he has, chasing pleasure until he’s too numb to notice the days slipping away?”

  “Hey!” Konrad shouted. Marduk glanced at him, begrudgingly. “You’re here for me, right? [The Chosen One], or whatever. Leave him out of this.”

  Marduk studied Konrad for a long moment, then looked back down at Damian with a faint, humorless smile. “See? Virtue, even in misery.”

  “He’s not miserable,” Damian snapped, glaring up at Marduk. “That’s his miracle: he found pieces of happiness inside your house of misery. Your words, not mine. Or... Word, I guess.”

  To Damian’s surprise, Marduk scoffed—and then they were hurled through the world again. Cold air slammed into him, cutting through his tunic and stealing his breath. He hadn’t felt cold since arriving in the city; he’d almost forgotten the bite of winter. Now they stood high above Jahrmarkt, atop a broad, flat structure. Damian was right on the edge, and he instinctively crouched to avoid being blown off by a strong gust of wind.

  The tallest building in Jahrmarkt. The Grand Cathedral.

  Then Damian noticed the chains were gone. He rubbed at his wrists and scanned the rooftop for any escape: a ladder, a door, anything. But there was nothing, just a flat expanse of stone.

  “You could jump,” Marduk offered mildly.

  Instead, Damian ran to Konrad, who was shaking now too. His clothes were even thinner than Damian’s. Damian stepped in front of him, arms outstretched, as if he could block a god’s gaze with his own body.

  Marduk rolled his eyes. “This is why I don’t argue with children—you don’t think. A touching gesture, but meaningless. Misery, happiness, order, law, right, wrong… none of it matters. I’m the god, and you’re mortals. I make the rules. You follow them. That’s reality.”

  “Fuck you!” Damian screamed.

  A hand settled on Damian’s shoulder. He looked up to see Konrad smiling. He looked… resigned.

  “I appreciate the meaningless gesture,” Konrad said softly. “And for seeing a future where there wasn’t one.”

  “Wait—” Damian blurted, panic breaking through as he realized what was coming.

  “Marduk!” Konrad called. “You’re here to kill me, right?”

  Marduk sighed, almost theatrically. Damian’s [Dangersense: The Chosen One] flared like a struck match. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Interesting, having you this aware for once.”

  Damian faltered. For once? What did Marduk mean, for once?

  “Will you spare Damian?” Konrad asked. “Your Word preaches mercy and compassion.”

  The god snorted—an oddly human sound that felt out of place coming from him. It was jarring to watch.

  “A section ignored by most,” Marduk said with an amused lilt. “Still, I appreciate that you’ve read my Word enough to know it. If you agree to die peaceably, on my Word, I will spare Damian. [A Chainbound Contract].”

  Konrad nodded. A chain shimmered into existence next to his hand, and he regarded it for a split second before grabbing it. Konrad winced as it quickly wrapped around his forearm, glowing with magical energy.

  “Thanks,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Thanks?!” Damian shouted. He grabbed Konrad’s shirt, yanking him close and clinging to him. “He’s going to kill you, Konrad!”

  “Yeah,” Konrad said, a sly grin breaking across his face. “I already knew that. Now I know he won’t kill you. Silver linings.”

  “Silver linings?” Damian echoed, incredulous. Tears streamed freely down his face. “Gods fucking damn it, Konrad, you’re a bastard.”

  “I did just save your life—I think,” Konrad said, almost laughing.

  How could he be laughing right now? Damian wanted to scream at him—to shake him, to blame him, to beg him to fight back. But what could they do?

  “I’m at peace, Damian,” Konrad murmured, pulling him into a hug. Damian collapsed against him, sobbing. “Do me a favor, yeah? Don’t give up. I think... I see a future for you. Just don’t let it make you miserable, okay?”

  “Konrad,” Damian babbled through tears and snot. “I don’t—I can’t—”

  And then he was gone.

  He didn’t explode. His head wasn’t severed. The chain glowed, and he just… disappeared. The absence was so abrupt that Damian collapsed to his knees, thrown off balance by the sudden lack of weight against him. For a moment, he just knelt there—empty and stunned. Then the scream tore itself from his throat, raw and uncontrollable.

  “[Fulfil Contract],” Marduk whispered.

  It wasn’t just Nephret. It wasn’t just his family, or Finn. It was Marduk. It was this whole city. Maybe the whole gods-damned world. Everything was trying to kill the people the Great Game had bound him to, and he’d failed. Again. [The Chosen One] was dead. Again. Only then did his [Dangersense: The Chosen One] whisper that the danger had passed.

  A cold hand gripped his shoulder. Damian didn’t flinch—half hoping Marduk would make him vanish too. But the god didn’t. He just spoke, that same maddeningly soft voice carrying even over the wind.

  “I’m giving you an opportunity with this mercy, child. Don’t waste it.” The hand squeezed him gently. “Abandon this asinine quest of yours. Live quietly. Stop making misery for yourself.”