The Cost of salvage

The war had ended three days ago, but the mud still tasted like copper.

Kaelen walked through the Ashen Corridor, his boots sinking inches deep into the grey sludge that coated the world. The fog here was perpetual, a thick, cloying soup of smoke and vaporized spirits that clung to the ruins of the forest. There were no trees left standing, only blackened stumps that looked like broken teeth jutting from the jaw of the earth.

He was scavenging. It was a low profession for a man who had once been a Centurion of the Sun, but the Sun was dead. His god had fallen at the Battle of the Gilded Ridge, pierced by a spear of shadow that had shattered the sky. Now, Kaelen was just a man in dented plate armor, looking for steel that hadn't rusted and gold that hadn't melted.

He approached the ruins of a chapel. It had once belonged to the enemy pantheon, a structure of white marble now reduced to a ribcage of stone.

Kaelen stepped over a corpse. The body was swollen, the face unrecognizable. He didn't check it for coin. The scavengers had already picked the outer perimeter clean. He needed to go deeper, where the structural instability kept the cowards away.

Inside the chapel, the air was colder. The roof was gone, allowing the grey light of the clouded sky to illuminate the altar.

And the silence. The silence was absolute.

Until it wasn't.

A sound, soft and wet, like a kitten choking.

Kaelen drew his longsword. The steel rasped against the leather of his scabbard. He moved toward the altar, his steps calculated and silent.

He saw a shield—a heavy tower shield emblazoned with the crest of the Moon—propped up against the stone. Beneath it was a bundle of rags.

Kaelen used the tip of his sword to hook the edge of the shield and pull it away.

It wasn't a trap. It was a child.

An infant, perhaps six months old, wrapped in a tunic that was far too large and stained with blood that wasn't hers. She was pale, her skin taking on the blueish tint of the deep cold. Her lips were cracked.

She didn't cry. She looked up at him.

Kaelen froze. The baby’s eyes were not right. They were wide, dark, and filled with a scattering of light that looked impossibly like the night sky. They reflected the stars that the smog above had hidden for decades.

"You should be dead," Kaelen whispered. The magical fallout in this sector cooked the lungs of grown men. A baby should have withered hours ago.

She let out a small, wheezing breath. She was dying. The curse of the Ash was in her blood.

Kaelen looked at her. He looked at the exit.

He should leave her. That was the mercenary way. There was no profit in a corpse, and she would be a corpse before sunset. He had survived the death of his god by cutting away all attachments, by becoming as hard and cold as the sword in his hand.

He turned to leave.

The baby made a sound. A tiny, friction-filled exhale.

Kaelen stopped. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. He cursed, a vile string of words from the barracks, and turned back.

He dropped to one knee. He pulled off his gauntlet and touched her forehead. She was burning up.

"Don't die," he growled, feeling foolish. "I don't have water."

He looked around the ruined chapel. There were no idols left. No icons. Just the empty air where gods used to listen.

"Is anyone there?" Kaelen asked the silence. It was an apostate’s question, spoken with the bitterness of a man who knew the answer. "If there are any gods left in this rot... I have a trade."

He didn't expect an answer. He expected the wind.

Instead, the shadows behind the altar lengthened. They pooled, thickening into a viscosity that looked like ink. A figure stepped out of the darkness.

He was tall, thin, and dressed in robes that seemed to be made ofledger paper, covered in shifting, glowing script. His face was a smooth mask of porcelain, featureless save for a mouth that was stitched shut with gold thread.

Kaelen scrambled back, raising his sword. "Demon."

The figure raised a hand. The gold threads on his mouth snapped, allowing him to speak.

"Not a demon, soldier," the entity said. His voice sounded like the rustling of dry leaves. "A broker. I am Malakor. I deal in debts."

"I have no debts with you," Kaelen spat.

"Not yet," Malakor said. He glided forward, looking down at the baby. "But you asked for a trade. You offered a transaction."

"I was talking to the wind."

"The wind owes me money," Malakor quipped dryly. "The child is fading. The necrotic resonance of the Ash has seized her heart. She has..." Malakor tilted his head, calculating. "...seven minutes."

Kaelen looked at the baby. Her eyes were closing.

"Can you save her?" Kaelen asked. The words tasted like ash. He hated needing them.

"I can sustain her," Malakor corrected. "I can place a ward upon her that will hold the death at bay. But my services are premium. The cost is high."

"I have no gold."

"I don't want gold. I want delivery." Malakor pointed a long, pale finger to the east. "Take the child to the Spire of Obligations. It is seven days' march from here. Deliver her to the altar at the summit."

"The Spire?" Kaelen frowned. "That’s the neutral ground. The place where the Pantheons sign treaties."

"Precisely. There is a... priesthood waiting for her there. Her family, perhaps. Or those who care for her kind."

"She has family?"

"Everyone belongs to someone," Malakor said evasively. "Do we have an accord? I save her now. You carry her there. You ensure she arrives undamaged."

Kaelen looked at the infant. If he said no, she died. If he said yes, he walked for a week.

He was a soldier without a war. He had nothing but time and a sword.

"Done," Kaelen said.

Malakor smiled. It was a terrifying expression on a porcelain face. He reached out and touched the back of Kaelen’s right hand.

Pain, white-hot and searing, shot up Kaelen’s arm. He cried out, dropping his sword.

When he looked at his hand, a black sigil had been burned into the skin—a complex geometric web of lines and circles.

"The Contract is struck," Malakor whispered. He waved a hand over the baby. A soft, golden light enveloped her, sinking into her chest. Her breathing eased immediately. The blue tint faded from her skin.

"Seven days, Kaelen," Malakor said, his form dissolving back into ink. "Do not be late. Interest accrues daily, and the penalty for default is... extensive."

The god vanished.

Kaelen was alone in the ruin, his hand throbbing, a baby sleeping at his knees.

"Damn it," he whispered.

He sheathed his sword, picked up the bundle of rags, and walked out into the mist.