I slip out from behind him, my hand leaving his. He grunts in protest, grabbing my arm, but I am transfixed.
"Look..."
They are ancient murals, painted in bright, vivid colors that should have faded thousands of years ago. They tell a story.
The first panel is a creature of shadow and rage. It is hulking, misshapen, ten feet tall, with claws and tusks and burning, feral eyes. It is surrounded by cowering, terrified figures.
My hand moves to my mouth. "Threk... it looks... It looks like you."
He growls, hating the image.
I move to the second panel. The same hulking, monstrous creature is kneeling. It is surrounded not by shadows, but by a consuming, brilliant white light. Its head is bowed.
I move to the third.
From the light, a new figure rises. He is not a monster. He is tall, powerful, his skin a deep, noble green. He has tusks, yes, but they are clean and proud. His hair is long and black. He is holding a spear. His eyes are not red. They are clear and intelligent.
He is a warrior.
A shudder of pure hope rocks me. This is it. This is his cure.
And below the murals, carved deep into the stone, are words. Ancient, carved letters.
I reach out, my fingers tracing the cool, humming stone.
"A... life... willingly... given... to restore... what was... lost."
I read the words aloud.
And my hope freezes.
My breath stops.
A life willingly given.
The words are not a prophecy. They are a price tag.
My blood runs cold. But it is not from fear. It is not even from disappointment.
It is from... certainty.
A terrible, quiet, final clarity.
This is it.
This is the end of my penance. The atonement I begged the darkness for, the one I fled Joric to find.
I told Threk about Christmas. A time of hope. A time for giving. I told him it was my wish... my Christmas wish... for him to be free.
And here is the answer.
The world, the magic, is offering me the one thing I have left to give.
My life.
A broken, useless, guilt-ridden life that cost my family everything.
A life for a life.
