The Puppet March

Dawn of the seventh day.

Kaelen stood at the crossroads. To the East lay the path up the mountain to the Spire. To the West lay the Ashlands, vast and empty.

"We're not going," Kaelen said to Noa. "I won't let them erase you."

He turned West.

He took a step.

His body seized.

Agony, absolute and blinding, exploded in his right arm. It felt like his blood had turned to molten lead. The sigil on his hand glowed with a violent, violet light.

Kaelen screamed, falling to his knees.

* The terms are clear,* a voice whispered in his blood. Malakor’s voice. *Delivery is mandatory.*

Kaelen tried to crawl West. His muscles rebelled. His own legs refused to obey him. They locked up, rigid as stone.

Then, against his will, his right leg moved. It stepped East.

"No!" Kaelen roared, digging his fingers into the mud.

His left leg moved. He stood up. He was a passenger in his own body. The magic of the contract had hijacked his motor functions.

He began to walk toward the Spire.

He fought every step. He strained until capillaries burst in his eyes, until sweat soaked his armor. But he kept walking. The pain only stopped when he moved toward the objective.

It was a march of torture.

He walked up the winding mountain path. He walked through the gates of the Spire. He walked into the great hall of obsidian.

Malakor was waiting.

The broker stood by a massive altar carved from a single block of black stone. The room was open to the sky, the wind howling around the pillars.

"Right on time," Malakor said, his voice echoing. "I knew you were a professional."

Kaelen marched to the altar. He tried to keep his arms locked, tried to hold Noa tight.

But the contract was stronger.

His arms extended. He laid Noa on the cold stone.

The moment she touched the altar, the paralysis broke. Kaelen collapsed to the floor, gasping, his body trembling from the strain.

"Excellent condition," Malakor said, inspecting Noa. She was awake now. She looked around at the cold, dark place. Her lip quivered.

"Don't," Kaelen rasped, trying to stand. His legs were jelly. "She’s a child. Not a suit."

"She is a transaction," Malakor said coldly. "And the buyer is waiting."

Malakor raised his hands. The air above the altar shimmered. A red, angry rift began to open—the gateway for the dead god.

Noa looked at Kaelen. And then, for the first time in seven days, she cried.

It wasn't a magic sound. It was a terrified, human wail. It echoed off the obsidian walls, small and helpless.