jackal-among-snakes-16091326
chapter-141

In the alleyways of Sethia, someone crawled away on their knees, veritably pulling themselves forward using the walls. They pushed aside rubble, heaving, then eventually collapsed against a building, breathless.

“Haah… haah,” the man breathed. Covered in grime, dust, and sand, the man was entirely nude. He was ridiculously skinny, appearing both dehydrated and starved. His hair and eyes were brown. His skin was the color of copper.

If any of the residents of the city saw him, they would know he was unmistakably the Lord of Copper.

Brium did not consider himself a fool. He knew when he had lost a battle. His enemies waited beyond, letting the elves tear at him like wolves hunting a lion. All of his allies were vanquished. His death was inevitable. As such, rather than perish, he elected to commit the only cardinal sin for Vessels of Fellhorn—severing his connection with the ancient god.

Two Vessels before Brium had done such a thing. It was an abominable act, and all who had done it had died miserably. Brium was no more than a mortal man, now. He looked much older than he once did—near forty, his true age. He was weak, friendless, and surrounded by people hostile to him. But he was alive, and that alone was sufficient.

After having caught his breath, he tried to rise to his feet. Something stopped him from doing so. Brium raised his head up, only to see a man in plate armor holding a boot to his shoulder.

Boarmask stood there. His namesake, the boar helmet, was badly dented. Part of the mock boar’s eye was caved in. His armor had been ripped asunder in many places, and even now, the man was bleeding.

“Planning an escape?” Boarmask questioned. “You aren’t why I’m stalking these streets. But the world must consider itself fortunate that I was watching. A tyrant such as you cannot escape judgement.”

Brium raised his hand up. He opened his mouth, but his tongue was dry, and he could form no words. Boarmask raised his mace up. Light fell onto his helmet, revealing a blue eye as cold as the deep sea.

“Reap the misery you have sown.”

Boarmask’s mace descended. After a second, the man pulled away his foot and mace both.

“Gods above, nurture these souls I send to you, wicked though they may be,” Boarmask prayed as he cleaned his mace. “There is one more I must send to meet you. I beg of you—watch over me, and ensure I walk the righteous path.”

Boarmask limped into the alleyway, where Titus’ voice grew ever louder.