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Sekhmet sighed, already annoyed.
"They are doing it again," he muttered.
His father did not even look at them. "They are young," he said. "They have eyes."
Sekhmet rolled his eyes. "I am fifteen."
"In Null," his father said, "fifteen is old enough to be killed. They know that. You are a merchant’s son. You are healthy. You look like you will survive. That is attractive in Slik."
One of the servants stepped forward and placed a tray near Sekhmet. Her voice was soft, a little too sweet.
"Master Sekhmet," she said. "Would you like tea?"
Sekhmet’s mouth opened to refuse, but she smiled so brightly that refusing felt like kicking a puppy.
He took the cup.
"Thank you," he said, stiffly.
The girl’s eyes lit up as if he had proposed marriage instead of accepting a cup of tea.
She retreated quickly, whispering excitedlyusly to the others.
Sekhmet watched her go and groaned softly.
His father finally looked at him.
"You will have fewer fan girls in purgatory," his father said.
Sekhmet snorted. "Good."
Then he looked back at the rings.
Fear returned.
Five years.
The lower domain.
Weights that grow heavier.
No return until twenty.
His hands clenched into fists.
He looked up at his father, and the question he had been holding back for years finally pushed its way out.
"Will you fulfill the promise," Sekhmet asked.
The servants froze for a heartbeat, sensing the shift in tone, then quietly moved farther away like birds leaving a branch before it breaks.
His father’s gaze sharpened.
"Which promise," he asked, though he already knew.
Sekhmet’s throat tightened.
"The promise about my mother," he said. "You said when I am strong enough, you will tell me."
His father did not speak immediately.
For the first time, the merchant mask cracked, not completely, but enough for Sekhmet to see something behind it.
Regret.
Or pain.
Or both.
His father’s voice came out quieter.
"I will do it," he said. "When you return after five years, I will tell you about your mother."
Sekhmet’s chest loosened slightly, as if a knot inside him had been pulled just a little less tight.
"But," his father added, and that word hit like a blade sliding under the ribs, "to know about her, you need to get stronger."
Sekhmet’s eyes narrowed. "Why."
His father’s jaw tightened.
"Because weakness gets people killed," he said. "And some truths are more dangerous than monsters."
Sekhmet stared at him, anger and frustration mixing with that aching curiosity he could never kill.
"Fine," Sekhmet said. "I will get stronger."
His father nodded once, satisfied, then gestured toward the rings.
"Put them on."
Sekhmet hesitated.
Then he reached into the box.
The moment his fingers touched the first ring, the pressure in the air deepened.
It felt like the room gained gravity.
Sekhmet’s hand trembled slightly.
He slid the ring onto his finger.
Thud!
It was not a physical sound.
It was the feeling of weight settling onto his bones.
Sekhmet’s eyes widened as his arm dipped slightly, as if the ring alone weighed as much as a stone. He inhaled sharply, surprised.
His father watched without sympathy.
"Again," he said.
Sekhmet forced himself to put on the second ring.
Thud!
More weight.
Third,
Thud
Fourth.
Thud!
By the time the last ring was on, Sekhmet’s hands felt like they were dragging boulders. His shoulders sank. His knees bent slightly under invisible pressure. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.
The servants stared, wide-eyed, their fan-girl excitement momentarily replaced by horror.
Sekhmet glared at them. "Stop looking at me like that," he snapped. "I am fine."
Then he nearly fell because even turning his head felt heavier than it should.
His father spoke calmly.
"You will adapt," he said. "Or you will break."
Sekhmet looked at his hands again, the four plain rings sitting there like innocent circles.
Innocent.
Like a snake sleeping in a basket.
He swallowed.
"When do I leave," he asked, voice quieter now.
His father’s gaze moved toward the open window, where the city noise drifted in. Beyond the merchant house walls, Slik continued its endless trade and violence without caring about a boy’s fear.
"Today," his father said.
Sekhmet’s breath caught.
A moment later, an escort arrived.
A group of armored figures, disciplined and silent, bearing the crest of a trade guild powerful enough to provide safe passage, at least as safe as anything could be in Null.
Behind them, chained outside in the courtyard, waited a flying beast.
It was massive, reptilian, with wings like dark sails and eyes that looked too intelligent. Its breath steamed in the warm air. Its claws dug into the stone as if it wanted to fly away from the city and never return.
Sekhmet stood at the edge of the courtyard, the rings dragging at his limbs. He looked back once.
His father stood in the doorway, hands behind his back, merchant calm restored.
Sekhmet wanted to shout more questions.
He wanted to demand answers.
He wanted to refuse.
But he also wanted the truth about his mother so badly it felt like hunger.
So he turned away.
He climbed onto the beast with the escort’s help.
The beast launched into the sky.
Whooosh!
Slik shrank beneath him, becoming a cluster of towers and smoke and ambition.
Then the lower domain spread out like a dark ocean, full of things that wanted him dead.
The escort took him far, far from the city.
Then they dropped him.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
They dropped him into purgatory like a man tossing a knife onto a battlefield.
Since then, Sekhmet has survived.
He learned how to sleep with one eye open.
He learned how to hide his scent from predators.
He learned how to drink water that tasted like metal and still be grateful.
He learned how to kill small monsters and not vomit afterward.
He learned how to run until his lungs burned, because running often meant living.
Over the years he got stronger.
And every time he got stronger, the rings became heavier.
His body adapted, and the rings punished him again.
His life got difficult again.
Over and over.
Until the day the orcs ambushed him.
Until the day he was chained in darkness.
Until the day Benimaru forced blood into his throat.
Until everything became blood and fire and voices inside his mind.
The memory snapped apart.
Whoosh!
Slik vanished.
The courtyard vanished.
Fifteen-year-old Sekhmet vanished.
Sekhmet stood in the present again, outside the ruined throne room, torchlight flickering over stone.
Crackle! Crackle!
He inhaled slowly, the air cold and damp, and his hands tightened at his sides.
Five years.
I was supposed to survive five years.
I was supposed to return at twenty.
And now I do not even know how long it has been.
He turned his head down the corridor, listening.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Only distant dripping and the soft sound of his own breath.
He moved carefully, each step silent, leaving the orc leader’s room behind like a nightmare he refused to carry any longer.
(Authors note: Guys please give power stones to the book. It will help me to continue.)