Rafael and Draven sat along the riverbank as dusk settled over the water. The current moved gently, carrying fallen leaves downstream, their reflections breaking in the ripples. Behind them, the house stood quiet—for once untouched by war, fire, or blood.
Draven was the first to speak.
"That magic you used earlier," he said, eyes fixed on the river. "The one that healed Mom."
Rafael didn't answer immediately. "I don't really understand it myself," he said at last. "I only started using it recently."
It wasn't a lie.Just not the full truth.
Draven lowered his head, fingers brushing the grass. Rafael glanced at him. "You've seen something like it before?" Draven nodded slowly. "During the war. Not many—but enough to remember."
He picked up a small stone and tossed it into the river. "There were soldiers who didn't fit any known category. They weren't casters, yet they wielded power that didn't belong to any element. And they weren't diviners either—no visions, no fate-reading."
Rafael's fingers brushed the ring on his hand, instinctive and brief.
"They were different," Draven continued. "Their magic wasn't learned. It answered them. And because of that…" He exhaled. "They were feared. Even among the army."
Rafael turned fully toward him now. "Feared how?"
Draven's jaw tightened. "Because they didn't follow the rules. You couldn't predict them. You couldn't counter them the usual way."
He reached down and plucked a leaf from the grass, holding it between two fingers. Slowly, he raised it and pointed it at Rafael like a blade. "People like that," Draven said quietly, "are called Singulars."
Rafael's breath caught. The word struck deeper than he expected.
Draven met his gaze, eyes sharp and certain. "You, little brother… are a Singular."
The river flowed on, indifferent. Rafael stared at the leaf, then at Draven—his mind racing. The shadows. The healing. The way the power had answered his desperation without instruction or form.
A Singular.
His hand tightened around the ring. If Draven knew this much… How much more did the world know?
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The days that followed passed in rare, fragile peace. For the first time in years, the Valemont household felt whole. Rafael, Draven, Sara—and even Malrek—settled into the new home as if they had always belonged there.
Mornings were slow. Evenings were warm. Meals were shared together, laughter soft but genuine. They spoke of small things, of memories long buried, of moments they had all thought lost forever.
It was a kind of peace none of them dared take for granted.
One afternoon, as sunlight filtered through the trees, Draven spoke of the war.
"The fighting's paused," he said, staring out toward the hills. "Not because either side wants peace—but because both sides are bleeding too badly to continue."
Rafael listened quietly.
"The elves lost entire battalions. So did we," Draven continued. "Neither kingdom can afford another push right now. So they agreed to pull back. Regroup. Heal."
He let out a hollow laugh. "Then, when they're ready… they'll start killing each other again."
Sara clasped her hands tightly. "And you?" she asked. "They let you come home?"
Draven nodded. "All surviving draftees were given leave. Temporary. We'll be called back eventually."
Malrek, seated nearby, said nothing—but his grip on his cup tightened.
"I was lucky," Draven added. "They assigned me as a scout. I handled supply routes, recon. Rarely saw the front lines directly." He hesitated. "That's probably why I'm still alive."
Sara swallowed. "Did you ever… see your father?" The question hung in the air.
Draven's gaze dropped to the ground. After a long pause, he spoke quietly. "Once."
Rafael turned to him. "It was years ago," Draven continued. "Brief. We barely spoke. He was already being reassigned elsewhere." He shook his head. "I haven't heard from him since."
Sara's shoulders slumped. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed them together, grief and worry intertwining in her expression. She had lived for years without knowing whether her husband still drew breath.
The silence that followed was heavy—but not empty. Rafael watched his mother, then his brother, and felt something settle inside him. This peace was fragile. Temporary. And when the war resumed… It would not spare anyone.
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The village was quiet—too quiet.
Rafael walked beside his mother through the narrow streets as they gathered what little food the market still offered. A few stalls remained open, their owners wearing tired expressions, their wares thin and overpriced. War had hollowed the place out. Even the air felt heavy.
As Sara haggled over vegetables, Rafael's gaze drifted.
That was when he saw it.
A small stone building stood apart from the rest of the town, its structure simple but deliberate. Narrow windows lined its walls, and atop its roof rested a metal cross, dulled by age. A church. Rafael slowed his steps. Perfect, he thought.
The Key to Hell had eluded him for too long. If there were anyone in a village who might know of forbidden relics, ancient myths, or sealed truths, it would be someone tied to faith—especially one devoted to a god.
He glanced at Sara. She was fully absorbed in conversation with a merchant, oblivious to his hesitation.
Rafael slipped away without a word.
The Valemonts were not believers. They prayed to no god, bowed to no altar. Still, Rafael pushed open the church doors and stepped inside.
The interior was empty.
Stone walls, wooden benches, and a single altar at the far end of the hall. Candles flickered weakly, their flames casting long shadows across the floor. Above the altar hung a large portrait.
Rafael stopped cold.
The man depicted there—golden-haired, stern-eyed—was unmistakable. His stomach twisted. It was him. One of the gods who had sat in judgment that day. The one who had glared at him with disdain.
Rafael felt a surge of disgust. Even painted and silent, the god's presence made his skin crawl.
"That's Erendel," a voice said behind him. "The God of Life."
Rafael turned.
A woman stood near a door leading to the back of the church, watching him calmly. She appeared to be in her early twenties, dressed in a black-and-white nun's habit that concealed most of her form. Her face, however, was striking—soft features, pale skin, and eyes the colour of a clear summer sky.
Blue.
Rafael lingered on them longer than he intended.
Blue eyes were rare. In fact, he couldn't recall anyone in the village who had his blue eyes. Most people had dull browns or blacks. Sophia was the only one with green eyes.
"I… didn't know," Rafael said evenly. She smiled faintly. "You're not a believer, are you?" "No," he replied without hesitation. He braced himself for judgment. For persuasion. For scripture and sermons. Instead, she said, "Lucky you."
Rafael blinked. She chuckled softly. "Then why are you here?" "I want to speak to the priest." Her smile widened. "Are you new to town? This church doesn't have a priest." Rafael paused. "Then… who's in charge?"
She pointed to herself. "That would be me."
They sat on a bench near the altar. Up close, Rafael noticed how composed she was—calm in a way that felt practised.
"What is it you wish to discuss?" she asked.
Rafael exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
"I'm looking for information," he said. "About the Key to Hell."
Her reaction was immediate. The colour drained slightly from her face. She turned away, fingers tightening around her sleeves. He noticed. "Seeking Hell will bring you no satisfaction," she said quietly.
"For me, it will," Rafael replied. She shook her head. "It's dangerous. Hell is a place without gods, without protection—without life."
"That's my choice to make," he said firmly. "If you know anything… please tell me." She studied him for a long moment, then spoke again.
"Before I answer, let me tell you about the first priest of this church." Rafael listened. "He was a man consumed by curiosity," she said. "Like you. He sought Heaven. He sought Hell. One day, he left to find the truth—and he never returned."
She met his eyes. "Do you still wish to know?"
Rafael didn't hesitate.
"At this point," he said calmly, "not even death scares me. Finding that key is my life's purpose—literally." Silence stretched between them. Finally, she stood. "Then wait here."
She disappeared into a side room and returned moments later carrying several old books, their covers worn and edges frayed. She placed them gently on the bench between them.
"This," she said, "is everything this church possesses about the Clavis Inferni—the Key to Hell." Rafael stared at the books. And smiled.