The Foundry of Gods

On the fifth day, the Spire of Obligations came into view.

It was a monstrosity of obsidian glass, piercing the clouds like a black needle. It sat on the edge of a cliff that dropped off into the Void—the end of the world.

They made camp at the base of the foothills. Kaelen was exhausted. The contract mark was burning hotter now, an itch that traveled up to his shoulder.

A traveler was sitting by a small campfire near the road. He was an old man, dressed in rags and feathers, stirring a pot of tea.

"Room by the fire for a soldier and a burden?" the old man asked, not looking up.

Kaelen approached cautiously. "Just passing through."

"Everyone passes through," the man cackled. "But few go up to the Spire."

The old man looked at Noa. His eyes narrowed. He sniffed the air.

"Smells like divine intervention," the man muttered. "Smells like a clean slate."

Kaelen stiffened. "What do you know of it?"

"I know Malakor," the mystic said, spitting into the fire. "He’s a broker. But he doesn't broker for orphanages, soldier. He brokers for the Dead."

"He said she has family waiting," Kaelen said.

"Family?" The mystic laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "The Spire is a foundry. When a god dies—really dies—their energy has nowhere to go. It needs a vessel. A container. But adult souls are too cluttered. Too full of sin and memory. They reject the divinity."

The mystic pointed a crooked finger at Noa.

"But a baby? An empty vessel? That is premium real estate. Malakor isn't saving her life, boy. He’s selling her body to be a suit of meat armor for some dead War God who wants another round."

Kaelen looked down at Noa. She was sleeping, her tiny fist clutching the fabric of his gambeson.

Meat armor.

"They wipe the mind first," the mystic continued, sipping his tea. "Scrub the soul clean so the god can fit. She won't exist anymore. She’ll just be a battery."

Kaelen felt the bile rise in his throat.

"I have a contract," Kaelen whispered.

"Then you are damned if you do, and damned if you don't," the mystic said. "Contracts with Malakor are written in bone."

Kaelen stood up. He backed away from the fire.

"Thank you for the tea," he said tightly.

He walked into the dark. He didn't sleep that night. He looked at the Spire, looming against the moon, and he looked at the mark on his hand.