The road to Rugum was long and oppressive. The carriage wheels creaked against the wet stones, and the silence among the soldiers weighed heavier than words. No one dared speak of what they had witnessed—or of the boy lying motionless among them. Some swore that, at times, the runes on the shackles flickered faintly, as if something within Toru was trying to awaken.
When the black walls of the capital, Rugum, appeared on the horizon—bathed in a blood-red sunset—a sense of inevitability fell over the escort. Beyond the massive gates and gothic towers awaited King Mori, a man known for his chilling calm and cold judgment.
And Toru, whether he wished it or not, was about to become the centerpiece of a fate far darker than the storm that had just passed.
Toru awoke abruptly, as if torn from a bottomless abyss. His head throbbed, and the bitter taste of poison still burned his throat. When he tried to move, the enchanted chains bit into his skin, and cold runes numbed his power. He opened his eyes.
He was in the central square of the capital, Rushum.
The black pavement was stained with mud and dried blood, and all around him, like a living wall, the crowd had gathered—common folk, merchants, widows, former soldiers—faces twisted by hatred and fear. Shouts erupted like a tidal wave:
— Death to the murderer!
— Cursed by the gods!
— He burned the city! He killed the commander!
The voices merged into a collective howl, and Toru felt each word strike harder than any weapon. The royal guards stood tense, shields raised, struggling to keep the crowd at bay. One wrong step, and the square would have turned into a massacre.
Then… silence.
Not a natural silence, but a forced one—heavy, as if the air itself had been clenched into a fist.
King Mori had arrived.
He advanced slowly, without visible escort, his black cloak brushing the stones of the square. His face was devoid of expression, his deep, cold eyes seeming not to look at the people, but at something far beyond them. With each step, the crowd's fury faded, until only the wind remained.
Mori stopped before Toru.
For several moments, he said nothing. He did not look at the chains. Nor the wounds.
He looked into his eyes.
Then the king's voice rose—calm, sharp:
— We cannot kill this boy while he still harbors the soul of the Stag God. The balance does not belong to us. Until another guardian god emerges, divine law binds our hands.
A dissatisfied murmur rippled through the crowd, but no one dared interrupt.
— There is one year left until that moment, the king continued. Until then, the boy will begin his exile in Alcum Prison. Only after that… will the sentence be fulfilled.
That was all.
No further explanation. No public trial. No questions.
Mori turned and left the square, his cloak vanishing among the palace columns.
The people's gazes remained fixed on Toru—filled with frustration and restrained hatred. Many would have torn him apart then and there, but fear of the king was stronger than the thirst for blood. The guards pulled Toru to his feet, the chains clanking like a verdict.
Along a side corridor of the palace, Commander Mill—King Mori's right hand—walked beside him. His scarred face betrayed rare unease.
— Your Majesty… if I may, he said quietly. Why didn't you ask the boy anything? Not even the reason for his actions?
The king did not stop walking.
— Because there was no need, he replied simply. I read it in his eyes.
Mill frowned.
— And what did you see?
Mori paused for a moment—just long enough for the words to carry weight.
— A child. A child who lost someone dear because of us.
Mill said nothing more
That same day, Toru's axe—the weapon that had shattered walls —was given to a fourteen-year-old boy, the youngest and most agile fighter in the Trosa regiment. A prodigy, praised by commanders, considered the army's great hope. Weapons infused with divine energy did not accept just anyone—but this time was different. The ambition in the boy's eyes made the weapon seem alive.
And Toru…
Toru was loaded into an iron cage pulled by black horses and escorted to the port, from where he would be taken to—
Alcum Prison, located on an island very close to Trosa.
A place where gods were forgotten, where time rotted, and souls were stripped of hope.
Toru's exile had begun.
It was an open wound in the earth, carved deep beneath the mountains, where light entered only as a mockery. Thieves and petty traitors were not sent there, but beings the world did not dare to kill — and could not allow to remain free.
And over this hell ruled Commander Kreia.
His name was spoken in whispers, even among the guards. Kreia was considered the vilest nightmare life could offer a man. Tall, massive, with a face carved by cold and cruelty, he always carried his divine weapon: the Whip of the Polar Bear God. Every strike of that whip did not merely tear flesh — it froze blood, leaving wounds that never fully healed. It was said that the god himself had wrapped his rage into the skin of the weapon.
Under Kreia's command, Alcum became more than a prison.
It became a symbol.
Perhaps the most important pillar through which Trosa upheld its claim of being the strongest kingdom in the world.
King Mori had turned Alcum into a bargaining chip. He demanded gold, territories, or services from other islands in exchange for imprisoning individuals too powerful to be contained within their own lands. Forbidden sorcerers, bearers of divine relics, dethroned kings — all arrived in chains at the gates of Alcum.
To secure absolute control, Mori forged a pact with King Yzoh of Groei, the realm of eternal ice. In exchange for the Whip of the Polar Bear God, Mori accepted terms many would have called treason: five hundred thousand gold ingots and twenty percent of Trosa's army, forced to fight beneath a foreign banner.
Many nobles whispered that the deal had been far more advantageous for Yzoh.
But Mori did not seek fairness.
He sought complete authority.
He sacrificed his own people, turning them into soldiers for another kingdom, simply to bind Alcum to a divine weapon — and to a man capable of wielding it without hesitation. In doing so, he did not merely create an unbreakable prison.
He created a monster.
Commander Kreia held no loyalty to gods, kingdoms, or laws. He held only one belief: that fear was the only pure form of order.
One night, when the cold bit harder than usual, Kreia walked through the deep cell corridors. The whip hung heavy at his side, and every step made the prisoners' chains tremble. He stopped before Toru's cell.
"The Stag God…" he murmured, studying him with a lifeless smile.
Toru raised his gaze. His eyes were sunken deep into their sockets, yet something still flickered within them. Not fear. Not hatred.
Resistance.
For a brief moment, the air around the cell grew sharply colder, and the runes on the shackles sparked faintly. Kreia tightened his grip on the whip's handle, feeling the vibration of ancient power.
"Interesting," he said quietly. "Perhaps the king was right."
Throughout those six months of torment — amid hunger, beatings, and nights when death seemed gentler than sleep — Toru had noticed something that did not belong with the rest of Alcum.
A cell.
It was no different in size or shape, yet the air around it was wrong. The corridor grew colder several steps before reaching it, and sound faded, as if the stone itself refused to vibrate. Guards quickened their pace when passing it, eyes fixed forward, hands tightening on their weapons. None stopped. None dared even glance inside.
Not even Kreia.
That was the part that troubled Toru the most.
The commander of Alcum entered every cell without fear or hesitation. He dragged his whip across the bars like a promise of pain, laughed in the faces of those who begged. But when he reached that cell… he fell silent. His steps slowed, stiffened, like a man measuring each breath. He did not strike the bars. He did not speak. His passing was swift and devoid of cruelty.
Toru could feel that place even with his eyes closed.
A chill ran down his spine — different from ordinary fear. It was not terror, but a deep warning, like an ancient instinct whispering for him to stay away. His shackles vibrated faintly whenever he was led down that corridor, and the Stag God within him stirred, restless.
Rumors traveled slowly, carried in whispers, passed between prisoners through knocks on walls and fleeting glances.
They said that cell did not hold a man…
but something that had once been human.
A monster greater than Kreia.
An immortal, untouchable man whom even the gods no longer claimed. He could not be killed by sword, magic, or divine weapons. Only disease or old age could bring him down — and neither seemed willing to touch him. Some said he had once been a hero. Others claimed he was the first bearer of a forgotten relic. No one knew the truth.
One evening, when the cold gnawed deeper than usual and Alcum itself seemed to breathe more slowly, Toru felt a gaze fixed upon him. It did not come from the forbidden cell.
It was closer.
"Hey… Stag."
The voice was rough, grainy, like wind scraping across dunes. Toru turned his head with effort. In the neighboring cell stood a man with sun-burned, cracked skin, yellow, clouded eyes, and a crooked smile. On one finger — hidden beneath filthy bandages — Toru caught a familiar glint.
A ring.
"My name's Yota," the man said. "From the desert lands. Bearer of the Camel God."
The Camel God. The god of survival, endless roads, and unforgiving thirst.
Toru did not answer at once. He had learned that words were weapons here. Yota chuckled softly.
"Relax. I've got one month left before execution. There's nothing more they can do to me."
Then, unprompted, he began to speak.
"In my village, on the day of sacrifice, all weapons are confiscated. No one is allowed to interfere with the gods' feast. It's a holy day, they say. The day the god chooses."
He licked his lips, as if the memory tasted bitter.
"I was nobody. A drunk. A desert dog. They accused me of rape… maybe rightly, maybe not. Doesn't matter. All I knew was that I didn't want to die like a worm, hanging in the square."
His gaze darkened.
"So I slipped to the altar. It was guarded, but gods don't expect blows from men without faith. Camila stood there… huge, calm, arrogant. And then…"
He clenched his fist.
"I struck him. Once. He fell. I struck again. And again. Until the god's blood mixed with the sand. And then I felt it."
Power.
The air around Yota's cell shifted subtly. Warm. Dry. Toru suddenly felt thirsty, as though his throat had filled with dust.
"He didn't choose me," Yota continued with a sick grin. "I took it. And that's why I'm here."
The silence between them grew heavy.
"Like you, Stag, I'm not a symbol. We're a mistake. The gods hate us. The king wants me dead. The guards can't wait."
He moved closer to the bars, as far as his chains allowed.
"But you… you're the key. This entire prison is built around you and those like us. And I don't want to die here."
Yota's eyes narrowed.
"I want to escape. From Alcum. From the most dangerous place in Nara."
Toru studied him for a long time. There was no nobility in Yota. No innocence. Only hunger. Desire. Pure survival. Yet behind his words, Toru felt something he hadn't felt in months.
A possibility.
Yota leaned back against the cold stone, far too relaxed for a man sentenced to death. His crooked smile inspired no trust; it was the kind that promised betrayal long before salvation.
"Don't look at me like that, Stag," he said, noticing Toru's silence. "I know. I wouldn't believe me either."
He slowly raised his left hand, and from beneath the filthy bandages slid a thin, nearly invisible blade. A small knife, perfectly sharpened, its edge blackened with an unknown metal.
"I got it secretly," Yota continued. "From a desert prisoner. A scared idiot. I promised I'd get him out of here."
He laughed shortly.
"I didn't say when."
Toru felt his stomach tighten. In Alcum, promises were cheap currency, and Yota looked like the kind of man who always paid with someone else's blood.
"Only us ring-bearers are kept permanently in enchanted shackles," Yota went on, suddenly serious. "The guards think we're animals without power. They're right. But animals bite when you give them an opening."
He lowered his voice toward the bars.
"When my cell door opens — not if, but when — I'll use the knife. This metal breaks runes. Not fast, but enough."
His gaze slid to Toru's chains.
"I free you first. The Stag God is too valuable to leave behind. Then…"
The arrogant smile returned.
"Then I'll need your help against Kreia."
At the sound of the name, the air seemed to chill. Toru instinctively felt the burn of old scars across his back — a living memory of the divine whip.
"You hate him, don't you?" Yota continued, savoring the reaction. "We all do. But you… you have a chance. The god inside you still breathes. Mine only screams."
He leaned so close to the bars their eyes nearly aligned.
"I'm not asking for loyalty. Or friendship. Just a fight. After that… every man for himself."
His tone made it clear: Yota had no intention of dying for anyone. Not even for Toru.
In the silence that followed, Toru lowered his gaze to the shackles. The runes were worn, but still active. He felt the Stag God stirring, cautious, suspicious.
Yota was dangerous. Arrogant. A man who had stolen the gods' power with his fists and wielded it without shame. But his plan was real. The knife was real. And time… was nearly gone.
"Think fast, Stag," Yota whispered. "I've got one month. You have six."
He grinned.
"Alcum forgives no one."
The corridor's shadows seemed to creep closer as guards' footsteps echoed in the distance. The plan had been spoken. The seed of betrayal had been planted.
And Toru knew one thing for certain:
if an escape were to happen, Kreia's blood would soak the stones of Alcum