“Sacrifices are the currency of gods, but a life given willingly is no longer a life lived freely. To slack is to refuse the ledger, to defy the balance sheet of fate, and to nap in the face of divine demands. Freedom is messy, imperfect, and priceless—everything the gods hate.” The Te of Slacking, Book 7, Verse 12:
"I don't want to talk about it," Jorgen said, each word hitting the air like the dull clang of a hammer striking cold steel.
He didn’t stop what he was doing, though—the rhythmic pounding of metal against anvil echoing through the forge as if he thought he could drown me out my question with noise.
"I didn’t ask you if you wanted to talk about it," I said, stepping closer, the heat from the forge prickling against my skin. "I asked why you had a personal visit from a Priest of the Maker after your wife died."
The hammer paused mid-swing, frozen in midair like the weight of my words had thrown off his balance. Jorgen stared straight ahead, his back to me, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows that made him seem larger than life—and far more haunted.
At the time, back when we’d pulled him off that crucifix in Eldhaven, he’d mentioned it almost in passing, a throwaway detail that had barely registered in the chaos of the moment. A Priest of the Maker showing up after a death in the family? Back home, that would have been about as remarkable as the local vicar showing up with a casserole and a few kind words.
Polite.
Routine.
But after talking things through with Scar and a couple of the Unmerry Men, it had become glaringly obvious that a visit from a Priest of the Maker wasn’t a kind-hearted courtesy call. It wasn’t even sympathy wrapped in piety.
It was a deal.
A personal intervention by someone who didn’t do personal without a very, very good reason.
And whatever that reason was, it had left Jorgen shattered, Lia’s future thrown in with the Empire and the Maker’s shadow hanging over everything.
“What happened to Lia’s mum?” I asked.
Jorgen’s grip tightened on the hammer, his knuckles going bone white as the forge’s flames danced over the tools scattered around him. For a moment, I thought he might swing at me just to get me to shut up, but then he set it down with a thud.
“I told you,” he said finally, his voice barely audible. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Careful, the Slacker said in my head. I dig what you’re doing, but you can only push this so far. The Maker doesn’t play when it comes to their plans. The clock’s ticking, and if this is your only lead on avoiding the apocalypse, you don’t want him stroking out on you.
I stepped forward again, feeling the heat intensify as I closed the gap to the blacksmith. I totally got what the Great Slacker was saying about caution, but in three days, the Maker was bringing about a locked-down, gamified apocalypse. And all had on my side was an idle idea that Jorgen might have something interesting to tell me.
“Well, too bad, my old mucker. Because I think whatever happened to Lia’s mum has a helluva a lot to do with why the Maker took such a personal interest in you. And if you think I’m going to drop this . . . well, you’ve perfectly read my lazy character. And it should tell you how important I think this is that someone with absolutely no persistence is asking the question again. Jorgen, mate. Talk to me.”
He turned to face me then, his expression a storm of anger, guilt, and something I couldn’t quite place—fear, maybe. The kind of deep, biting terror that sinks its claws in and never really lets go. The type of horror that might lead a Master Blacksmith to abandon his calling, take up a career as the least successful gambler in the world and sell his daughter out as a Lady Terminator.
I watched as his eyes flicked to the forge’s flames as if he could find an escape route in the fire.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the forge were the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic hum of the enchantments swirling in the background, and—because the universe apparently couldn’t resist—a steady mental ping, ping, ping of notifications lighting up my brain like a particularly unhelpful fireworks display.
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It seemed that while I was trying to dig into Jorgen’s tragic backstory, I’d managed to unlock a new skill: Playing Hardball. And because life, apparently, loves a trier – or, you know the exact opposite of that – it was already at Level 8.
Skill Unlocked: Playing Hardball (Level 8) “Why wait for the truth when you can drag it kicking and screaming out of someone?”You’ve mastered the art of forcing the truth out of others, whether they like it or not. Your words hit like hammers, and your persistence is downright infuriating. Enemies and allies alike will find it increasingly difficult to dodge your pointed questions or avoid spilling their secrets.
Passive Effect: +15% to Persuasion when digging for information.
Active Effect: Causes minor stress debuffs in targets when pressed for answers.
Great. Just what I needed: confirmation that my interrogation skills came with a built-in annoyance multiplier. Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or slightly horrified at how fast it was levelling up.
And judging by Jorgen’s clenched fists and haunted stare, I’d say the passive debuff was already doing its job.
Yeah, the Slacker said, I don’t know what the fuck that is all about. You’ve obviously got friends in . . . other places. Time to make myself a bit scarce. Peace out, dude.
Well, that was . . . disconcerting.
But I didn’t have chance to worry too much about it, because Jorgen’s hammer was now hanging limply in his hand, as if the weight of the question had sapped his strength. Which looking at that debuff, it actually might.
“You want the truth?” he asked finally. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Rogue. Some things are better left buried.”
***
Jorgen’s face darkened as he stared at the glowing forge.
“It started the day Lia was born,” he began. “We’d barely brought her home when the Priest of the Maker arrived. I didn’t know who he was at first. He wasn’t what you’d expect—no grand robes, no halo of light. He walked into our house like he owned it and congratulated us, praised Lia’s birth like it was some holy event, and then…” Jorgen’s hands clenched around the hammer, the metal groaning in his grip. “…he started laying out the rules.”
“Rules?”
“Yes. Rules for Lia’s life. Her path, her choices—all mapped out by the Maker. She was to live as a vessel, pure and untainted, raised in devotion to the Maker’s Code. Every step, every thought, every action scripted. He said her life wasn’t her own. It belonged to the Maker, and she would fulfill her purpose when the time came.”
“That sounds suspiciously like what the Total System wants to do to the whole world,” I said.
Jorgen shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but Lia’s mother… she wasn’t having it. It would be fair to say that Lia gets her temper from her mum. She stood up to him. Told him Lia was a baby, not a pawn. That no god—Maker or otherwise—had the right to dictate her life.”
His voice softened, a trace of admiration seeping through the bitterness. “She was fierce. Brave. She didn’t back down. But the Priest… he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to convince her. He just smiled and said, ‘Then let’s let the Code decide.’ Then he pulled out this… this thing. A glowing die, carved with symbols I didn’t recognise. He told her that if she was so confident Lia’s fate shouldn’t be controlled, she could roll against the Maker’s Code. One roll. One chance.”
“Wait, what?” I blinked, taken aback. “He challenged her to a dice game for her own daughter’s life?”
“He did. And she accepted—of course, she did. She thought she could beat him. That a roll of the dice was fairer than letting some stranger dictate Lia’s future.”
“And?” I prompted, already guessing the outcome.
“She lost,” Jorgen said flatly. “The die landed on a symbol—one I’ve never seen since, but I’ll never forget it. The Priest smiled like it was inevitable. Like it had never been a real choice. Then he stood up and… he killed her. Just like that. No ceremony, no hesitation. He called it ‘balancing the scales.’”
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It means that the Maker doesn’t leave debts unpaid. Lia’s mother refused the path, so the Priest made her the sacrifice instead. And then…” He trailed off, his gaze falling to the hammer in his hands.
“What?” I pressed, my heart pounding. “What did he do?”
Jorgen’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “He turned to me. Told me that Lia was still destined for the Maker’s purpose, but her path needed to be shaped differently now. That my wife’s action had led to her having a very different role.”
“Role?” I asked, though I could already feel where this was going.
The Maker said that she would be a sacrifice. It wants her to die at the ‘appointed time.’ Lia’s death will be the trigger for everything the Maker has planned.”
“So you… what? Decided to turn her into a killing machine to give her a fighting chance?”
“I knew what the Priest wanted her to be—weak, obedient, and ready to die on command. I couldn’t stop the Maker’s plan outright, but I could make her something more than a pawn. I took contracts for her, got her into fights, made her into something no one could control. The only way I could see out of it was to make her so strong, so deadly, that when the time came, she’d have a chance to defy the Maker.”
I stared at him, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the cold, calculating monster his story painted him as. And yet, beneath it all, there was a twisted kind of logic. What he did was shitty—incredibly shitty—but in his own messed-up way, he’d given Lia a shot at survival.
“You sacrificed her childhood to save her life.”
Jorgen’s face hardened. “You think I don’t know what I did? You think I don’t carry that every day? But if it means she has a chance to live—to be free—then I’ll take that guilt. Every damn bit of it.”
I exhaled, the heat of the forge suddenly feeling unbearable. “And now she’s here. The strongest warrior I’ve ever seen. A survivor in every sense of the word. But what happens when the Priest—or the Maker—comes calling again?”
Jorgen’s silence was answer enough.