The man lifted one shackled wrist. The metal hissed. "Someone had to take your place. Our father offered the contract, but I'm the one who bound myself to it."

Cain went still.

"What contract?"

A low, dry laugh escaped the man. "The same one that kept you alive. The same one that tied you to a Fallen. The same one that demanded a life—and got mine instead of yours."

Cain took a step back. "We had a father who—"

"Who thought he could outsmart the divine," the man cut in. "Who thought he could protect you. Who thought he could save one son while gambling with the other."

Cain stared, unable to think, unable to breathe.

"What are you to me?" he whispered.

The man held his gaze.

"I'm your brother."

The world cracked.

Cain's voice came out weak. "I don't—how—why—"

"Because you were dying," the man snapped. "Because you were still a baby and he refused to lose you. Because the Fallen wanted a life and I stepped forward before he could finish the bargain."

Cain swallowed hard. "Why would you do that for someone you didn't know?"

The man's jaw flexed. "Because I did know you. You were in my arms the night he made the deal."

The heat in the room intensified, like the chamber itself reacted to the truth being spoken aloud.

Cain shook his head. "But if you took the price, why am I still tied to him?"

The man's eyes dimmed. "Because fire doesn't split cleanly. The contract bound me, but your blood… it carried echoes. Enough to tether you. Enough to drag you along this path."

Cain's chest ached. "What happened to you after?"

The man looked down at his shackles, voice low.

"I was brought here. To burn. To wait. To keep the contract alive."

"That's torture."

"That's sacrifice," the man corrected, though his tone held no reverence. "And I made it willingly."

Cain stepped closer. "I can break those chains."

"You can't," the man said flatly. "You don't understand this place. This is a sanctum of binding. You're walking inside a contract made manifest."

Cain raised the lantern anyway. "Watch me."

The man exhaled slowly. "You're stubborn. Just like him."

Cain paused. "Like our father?"

The man didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Cain lifted the lantern higher, letting its flame surge. The heat sharpened, bright enough to sting his vision. The shackles vibrated, metal glowing faintly.

The man gritted his teeth. "Stop. You're destabilizing the sanctum."

Cain ignored him.

The flame climbed higher—white-hot, fierce, alive.

The shackles cracked.

The floor beneath them quaked.

A chasm tore open behind the bound man, splitting the hall. Fire roared up from the depths, spiraling toward the ceiling.

The man stared at the rising inferno, eyes wide. "Cain—stop—"

But Cain didn't.

He poured everything into the lantern. Anger. Fear. Confusion. Desperation.

The shackles exploded.

The chasm expanded.

The sanctum screamed—an ancient, impossible sound.

Cain grabbed his brother by the arm. "Come on!"

The ground fractured beneath them.

Flame swallowed the edges of the hall.

The sanctum began to collapse.

And as the two brothers sprinted toward the archway—

Something massive stirred in the fire behind them.

A voice—deep, resonant, unmistakably Fallen—rose from the collapsing sanctum:

"He was not yours to free."

Cain didn't look back.

He dragged his brother forward as the sanctum fell apart around them, fire consuming everything behind them.

And the path ahead twisted, opening into another blinding light.

They leapt into it together.

The light swallowed them whole.

It wasn't the same clean brilliance that had brought Cain into the sanctum. This one burned—raw, violent, unfocused. It tore at the air, at his skin, at the ground that tried and failed to materialize beneath their feet.

Cain hit something hard.

Rolled.

Coughed.

His brother crashed down beside him with a hoarse groan. The light vanished instantly, collapsing into a pinprick that dissolved into nothing.

Darkness swept in—not total, but thick enough that Cain struggled to see more than a few meters ahead. The ground here wasn't scorched stone. It was soil. Real soil. Damp. Cold.

Cain pushed himself upright, grimacing.

His brother stayed on his hands and knees, catching his breath the way someone does after centuries of never needing lungs.

Cain knelt beside him. "You breathing?"

The man nodded slowly. "Trying."

Cain's throat tightened. For someone who had been burning in a sanctum for what could have been decades—or centuries—the man's voice carried a frightening fragility.

"Where are we?" Cain asked.

His brother raised a shaking hand and let a faint ember of golden light flicker between his fingers. It glowed weakly, illuminating their surroundings.

They were in a forest.

Not lush. Not dead.

A grey, silent forest with towering trees that stretched up into a ceiling of fog instead of sky. Branches tangled overhead like woven ribs, letting only thin slits of muted light leak through.

The air felt stale.

Cain scanned the shadows, muscles tensed. "I don't see any paths."

"That's because this place makes its own," his brother murmured. "And changes them whenever someone steps inside."

Cain frowned. "Have you been here before?"

His brother shook his head. "I've only heard of it. The Veiled Grove. A crossroads of sorts."

"Crossroads to what?"

"To whatever's left after you tear apart a sanctum of fire."

Cain grimaced. "So… a punishment?"

"Or a test."

Cain didn't like either option.

He helped his brother stand. The man trembled but stayed upright. Cain got a clearer look at him now—the burns, the cracks in his skin, the exhaustion carved into bone. But underneath all the damage, the resemblance was unmistakable.

Same jawline. Same eyes. Same posture when angry or determined.

Cain swallowed hard.

He turned away before the weight of recognition got too heavy.

"We move," Cain said. "Anything's better than waiting here."

His brother didn't argue.

They walked.

The forest absorbed sound. Their footsteps barely registered, swallowed by the fog. No birds. No wind. No insects. Just silence and the faint hum of something distant, like a heartbeat they could never quite pinpoint.