Vaaro stood at the entrance to the chapel; his hunched figure cast a long shadow across the whitened threshold stones. The silver nose ring gleamed in the torchlight that burnt on either side of the opening. He didn't go inside. Wasn't in any hurry. Simply waited whilst Tavarek finished his evening prayer.

  The priest emerged after a minute; his white tunic billowed in the wind. The tattoos on his arms seemed alive in the flickering light—serpents, stars, runes woven into a single pattern. He stopped two paces from the caster; his gaze was sharp, wary.

  "I knew you'd come."

  Tavarek's voice sounded calm, but steel could be felt within it.

  Vaaro smirked. Fangs flashed in the half-light.

  "Of course you knew. Her blood screams. I can hear it wherever I go."

  The priest folded his arms across his chest; his massive shoulders squared.

  "What do you want?"

  "Give her to me. As an apprentice."

  "No."

  The answer came instantly, without deliberation. Vaaro snorted, shook his head. His braid swayed behind his back; black strands slid across greenish skin.

  "You didn't even consider it."

  "I don't need to consider," Tavarek stepped forward; his gaze was hard, unyielding. "I see a different fate for her. She'll walk the path of service to the Twelve. Too much power lies within her. Too much potential. Her destiny will exalt her so that mere village servants won't be her equals."

  The caster's smirk widened. The sound came out harsh, like stone grinding on stone.

  "Mere village servants?"

  He straightened as much as his stoop allowed; his height of over ten feet transformed him into a looming mass. Yellow eyes narrowed; something predatory, ancient flickered in them.

  "Listen to me carefully, priest." His voice became quieter; each word was enunciated separately. "No one in all Seratis, save my teacher, can channel her gift better than I. No one. Not you with your prayers, not the Order with their spears and swords. Her blood—it's not something controlled by oaths, nor something that can be tamed with armour. It's elemental. Primordial. Wild."

  Tavarek didn't flinch. His gaze remained firm.

  "Precisely why she needs discipline. Boundaries. The Order will give her purpose. Meaning. Brotherhood."

  "The Order will turn her into cannon fodder," Vaaro waved his hand; his long fingers with sharp nails cleaved the air. "Just another knight-woman with a sword and a pretty crest on her chest. She'll burn out in her first real battle because she won't learn to control what's inside. And when the blood breaks free—it'll kill everyone around her. Enemies, friends, brothers-in-arms. Everyone."

  "You're exaggerating."

  "No." The caster tilted his head sideways; the silver ring swayed. "I've seen such. Not as strong, but similar. Those who don't learn to control the gift of blood transform into monsters. Literally. Their bodies mutate. Their minds shatter. And in the end they kill themselves, unable to withstand the pressure of the power from within. Is that the fate you want for her?"

  Tavarek remained silent. Wind rustled the palm fronds somewhere behind the chapel. Torches crackled, scattering sparks into the dark sky.

  "Her blood will bring her to me anyway," Vaaro straightened, turned towards the village exit. "Sooner or later. Better it happens now, whilst she can still learn. Whilst it's not too late."

  He stepped towards the jungle, not looking back.

  Tavarek watched him go; his lips compressed into a thin line.

  "Vaaro!"

  The caster froze at the edge of the torchlight. Shadow fell before him, stretched across the path to the jungle.

  "Do you know about the Prophecy of the Thirteenth Child?"

  The troll's shoulders tensed. His braid swayed; strands rustled. He turned slowly; yellow eyes bored into the priest.

  "I know."

  His voice sounded hollow, without its former mockery.

  Tavarek stepped closer. His face remained impassive, but interest flickered in his eyes.

  "And so?"

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Vaaro remained silent for one second, two. Wind stirred the edge of his loincloth—leather, old, tanned by time and blood. The tattoos on his arms seemed darker in the night light—patterns, runes, signs of spells woven into flesh.

  "That prophecy drove my father from the village five years ago," the caster exhaled. "He left seeking answers. Hasn't returned yet."

  "Why?"

  "Because the prophecy speaks of the return of one who shouldn't exist."

  Vaaro spat to the side, sharply, as though ridding himself of bitterness in his mouth.

  "'When the stars align in the Sign of Thirteen, a child shall appear whose blood will absorb the power of all sacrifices. Flesh will become a vessel. Soul—a bridge. And across that bridge shall step he who ruled the dead, whose crown has rotted, whose heart lies buried beneath the ice of oblivion. Thirteen will merge into one. One will call to the Forgotten Throne. And the Lich King will return to Seratis, clothed in the skin of the living, driven by hunger for dominion over all that exists.'"

  The words hung in the air. Tavarek froze; his hands unclenched, fell to his sides.

  "Your father... believed in this?"

  "My father studied ancient texts for half his life," Vaaro smirked crookedly, without joy. "He found mentions of the Lich King in records of the First Exodus. When mages and priests hadn't yet divided into schools and orders. It said he was banished, not killed. Simply sealed beyond the boundary of worlds, hoping time would erase him. But the prophecy claims otherwise. He hungers to return. And the blood of the Thirteen is the key."

  The priest shook his head.

  "That's... absurd. Legends. Tales to frighten children round campfires."

  "My father didn't think so," Vaaro snapped back. "He left seeking a way to prevent this. To find the Throne, to learn how to sever the link between worlds permanently. I remained here because he told me to watch. To teach those whose blood is strong. To keep them from... from becoming a vessel."

  Tavarek stepped closer; his eyes narrowed.

  "Do you think she's the child from the prophecy?"

  "I don't know," the troll tilted his head; his braid fell onto his shoulder. "Her power is greater than anyone I've met. If the prophecy speaks truth, if the Lich King hungers to return... she could become the gate. Or a weapon against him. Depends on who teaches her. And how."

  The priest remained silent. Torches crackled. Somewhere in the jungle a night bird cried out—sharp, alarmed.

  "Does the Order know about this?" Vaaro asked.

  "No. The prophecy is considered apocryphal. Neither magisters nor bishops take it seriously."

  "Fools."

  Tavarek exhaled. His gaze slid towards the chapel, where behind stone walls flickered faint hope for order, for meaning, for salvation through faith.

  "What do you propose?"

  Vaaro bared his teeth. Fangs flashed predatorily.

  "Give her to me. Let her learn to control blood. Let her become strong enough that no one—not the Lich King, not anyone else—can turn her into a puppet."

  Tavarek stood motionless; his massive arms clenched into fists. The tattoos on his forearms writhed in the torchlight—serpents crawled across skin, stars pulsed, runes glowed dimly like dying embers. Wind tugged at the edge of his white tunic, exposing muscular calves covered with the same sacred patterns.

  "You ask too much."

  "I ask what's necessary," Vaaro stepped back towards the chapel; his hunched figure bore down on the priest like a shadow. "Your order will turn her into a weapon. Sharp, gleaming, but fragile. I'll make her elemental. Unbreakable."

  "At what price?"

  The question sounded quiet, almost a whisper, but steel could be heard in it.

  The caster froze. Yellow eyes narrowed; the silver nose ring swayed when he tilted his head sideways.

  "What price do you mean?"

  "Blood magic devours those who practise it," Tavarek didn't avert his gaze. "I've read the treatises. Seen the drawings in forbidden texts that wandering monks brought from the Northern continent. Blood casters live half as long as ordinary mages. Their bodies wear out. Their minds crack. What will you do with her, troll? Turn her into a copy of yourself—a half-mad hermit hiding in the jungle?"

  Vaaro bared his teeth. Fangs flashed predatorily, but no laugh sounded. Only a dull growl tore from his chest.

  "Better a half-mad hermit than a dead heroine in pretty armour, laid in the ground with honours."

  "There's a third path."

  "What path?"

  The priest straightened, squared his shoulders. Torchlight fell across his face, emphasised sharp features, a square jaw, a scar above his right eyebrow—memory of some long-ago battle.

  "Teach her with me. You—magic. I—discipline, faith, purpose. Together we'll give her what she needs: power and control. Might and meaning. She won't become the Order's cannon fodder. And won't transform into a monster that devours itself."

  Vaaro remained silent. For a long time. Wind rustled the foliage; the jungle breathed with damp, heavy air saturated with the smells of rot and flowering vines. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. Torches crackled, dropping sparks onto the threshold stones.

  "You don't trust me," the caster finally exhaled.

  "No." The priest held a pause, let the words hang between them; they settled as a heavy weight in the night air. "But I trust myself. And I believe—I believe with all my heart, with all my soul, that together, uniting our strengths and knowledge, we won't let her walk the path of destruction and self-annihilation."

  The troll snorted contemptuously; the sound burst from his broad chest, echoed off the chapel walls. He turned sideways to the priest, demonstratively, showing his disdain and doubt.

  The air thickened with tension. The jungle fell quiet, as though nature itself held its breath awaiting the blood caster's decision.

  "Very well."

  The word sounded sharp, short, like the blow of a heavy axe on a tree trunk. Final. Irrevocable.

  Tavarek exhaled slowly, long. Tension in his broad shoulders fell; muscles relaxed beneath the tattoos. Hands, clenched into fists all this time, unclenched; fingers straightened.

  "Very well?" He asked, not believing his own ears, as though fearing he'd misheard.

  "Yes. We'll teach her together." Vaaro turned halfway; yellow eyes flashed in the darkness. "But by my rules too. Not only by your Church canons and regulations. If I see—even once—that she's breaking under your discipline, that your faith oppresses her more than it helps—I'll take her permanently. Without talk or argument."

  "Fair enough," the priest nodded slowly, agreeing to the terms. "If I see the magic devouring her mind, that blood sorcery is corroding her reason, if I see madness in her eyes—I'll stop the training myself. Immediately."

  Vaaro smirked crookedly, at one corner of his mouth; fangs flashed in the torchlight. He turned his broad back to the jungle, stepped with long legs into the darkness, away from the torchlight, into the embrace of the night forest.

  "Bring her at dawn tomorrow. To the old altar in the ancestors' grove. We'll begin there."

  His voice dissolved in the night; his figure vanished between the trees.

  Tavarek remained alone at the chapel threshold; his white tunic billowed in the wind. He gazed towards where the caster had gone; his look was thoughtful, heavy.

  "May the Twelve watch over us all."