After several hours, the devastating storm began to fade, like a wounded beast retreating into the dark. Thunder turned into distant echoes, and the once-lashing rain thinned into a heavy curtain of droplets. Through the burdened clouds, the sun dared to slip through with pale light, revealing the true face of the disaster.

The royal troops—sent to call for reinforcements and escort the children to the capital, Rugum—returned to the devastated city. What they found froze the blood in their veins. Collapsed buildings, streets torn apart by power gone out of control, scorched marks burned into stone—clear signs of a confrontation that had far surpassed human limits.

The guards stood motionless when they spotted their commander, Yutaka, lying on the cobblestones, glassy eyes fixed on the sky. Beside him lay the body of a young man—or rather, a boy of about seventeen—his clothes shredded, his chest rising only faintly.

One was dead.
The other was alive.

Unfortunately for them, the one who lived was Toru.

The residual aura still faintly pulsing around him made the soldiers instinctively step back. Even unconscious, the boy radiated an unsettling presence, as if the energy of his ring refused to be fully subdued. The poison from Yutaka’s weapon had taken effect, paralyzing his body and plunging him into forced sleep—but it had not extinguished his power.

Without hesitation, the captain of the guard ordered the application of anti-energy enchanted shackles, marked with witchcraft symbols. The cold manacles, engraved with ancient runes, snapped shut around Toru’s wrists, and the air trembled slightly as his bond with the ring was suppressed. The magic withdrew abruptly, like a flame smothered beneath ash.

Yutaka’s lifeless body was lifted with respect and covered. Toru, however, was shown no mercy. He was bound, loaded into an armored carriage, and guarded on all sides. The order was clear: he was to be delivered alive to the capital.

The road to Rushum 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, Rushum, 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 Kuto—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.

Kuto 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.

Kuto said nothing more 

That same day, Toru’s axe—the weapon that had shattered walls and summoned storms—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.