Zephyros stumbled out of Iris's room, his chest heavy, his breath shallow, as though the air itself had turned to ash. He reached his room, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him.
The room was dark, save for the pale, silvery light of the moon streaming through the window, casting long, jagged shadows across the piles of books that towered like monoliths. Among them, a painting rested precariously on his bed—a portrait of himself, his sister Iris, and their mother, her face forever frozen in a serene smile that now felt like a cruel mockery of the life they had lost.
He collapsed onto the bed. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unrelenting, carving paths through the numbness that had settled over him. His eyes, red and swollen, flickered toward the window. But the light only illuminated the chaos within him—the storm of questions and contradictions that raged endlessly.
"Why?" he whispered, his voice breaking. "Why are people so cruel? Why do they kill? Why do they lie? Why do they destroy?"
"Iris believed in light," he hissed to the dark. "She thought virtue could be cultivated—like roses in a poisoned garden." His fist struck the mattress, the impact shuddering up his arm.
"But roots drink the same filth that kills the blooms. We're all infected. Even her. Especially her. Saints don't bleed for tyrants unless the rot's already in their marrow."
"Why build gods who feast on children?" His whisper shredded the silence.
"Why chain entire kingdoms to lies carved in rotten wood?" The moon's glare sharpened, magnifying the room's decay—the frayed book spines, the dust motes swirling like ash from a pyre.
He reached for a book, his hands trembling as he pulled it from the pile.
"If there is a god," he muttered, "you." He spat at the unseen deity. "If there is some divine force that Henri prayed to, then why does it allow this? Why does it let the innocent suffer while the wicked thrive? Is God neither good nor evil? Is God… just?" He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence.
"No. God is just. It's people who are flawed. Blind. They can't tell good from evil. They kill in their minds, curse in their sleep, and commit atrocities in their dreams. They are the ones who twist justice into something unrecognizable." The book trembled in his grip, pages fluttering in a soundless scream.
"Or are you just the mirror, reflecting our own festering hunger back at us?"
The book slipped from his hands, landing with a dull thud on the floor. He stared at it, his vision swimming with tears.
"We die for a greater purpose," he said, his voice hollow. "That's what they say. But why is it so hard to understand? Why does it feel like a lie? My thoughts… they're too much. Too vast. Too tangled. I see every side, every perspective, and it's tearing me apart. I understand them—the killers, the liars, the destroyers—and I hate them. But I also hate myself for understanding. Who am I? Which side do I belong to? Am I the hero, the villain, or just another pawn in this endless game?"
His gaze fell on the painting, on Iris's face. "She shouldn't die," he said, his voice cracking. "She has so much life ahead of her, so much light to give. Everything I've done… it was for her. She wasn't made to be sacrificed to some unknown god, to die for a lie I can't stop. I've seen it—the good die, and the wicked thrive on their suffering. They feast on the pain of others, and they deserve to burn for it."
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "Every being supposedly has a destiny," he whispered. "If I could rewrite destiny, I would. I'd rewrite hers. I'd save her. I'd… I'd kill them all if I had to. The family. The ones who orchestrated this. I'd rewrite their destinies too. I'd make them pay."
He collapsed onto the bed, tremors wracking his frame like a puppet severed from its strings. The words slithered out, venom and ash: "What if it means something?" A child's plea dressed in martyr's robes. Iris's voice haunted the spaces between his teeth—"My death will be a seed, Zeph. Promise you'll let it grow."
They'll embalm her sacrifice in ballads, he realized, while the tax collectors pick clean the bones of her legacy.
"You thought your death could matter here?" He pressed a trembling palm to the cold windowpane, watching his breath fog the glass. "In this place that turns virtue into verse? That trades innocence for incense?"
Somewhere, the owl's fractured wing dug into his thigh—a phantom rebuke. You let them carve her into a symbol. Now watch them sell her bones as relics.
"I wish—" His throat closed. I wish I still believed symbols could bleed. That banners could birth change instead of burial shrouds.
But then a darker thought crept in.
What if he, too, was destined to burn? What if his family's lies demanded his death as well? He had always believed he would die for a cause, but now the idea felt hollow, a script written by others.
He clenched his jaw, his resolve hardening. "No." The word tore from him, raw and serrated. He would not die for their lies. He would not let them control him, not even in death.
When he closed his eyes, the tears still fell—not cleansing, but corrosive. Grief was an ocean now, its black waves crushing his ribs, its salt searing his throat. Anger thrived there too, a leviathan circling the depths. And beneath it all, the terrible truth: part of him craved the descent. To let the abyss fossilize his fractures.
"I'm drowning," he rasped to the empty room. "And I don't…" A shuddering breath. "…don't know if I deserve the shore."
Zephyros' fingers tightened around the wooden owl, its smooth surface cool against his palm. He froze, the fragments trembling in his grip. Iris's laughter echoed—not the frail, blood-flecked cough of recent weeks, but the wild peals of their childhood.
"Look, Zeph! I carved its eyes from onyx! Now it sees truths even god missed!"
"Even this," he whispered, cradling the broken body. The onyx eyes stared up, accusatory. You were the truth-keeper. And you failed.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the shattered owl. His tears had dried, but his face was still etched with pain. He picked up one of the broken pieces, turning it over in his hands.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He didn't answer at first, but the knock came again, more insistent this time. Reluctantly, he stood and opened the door to find a young servant, wide-eyed and nervous, holding a sealed letter.
"For you, sir," the servant said, avoiding Zephyros' gaze. "From the royal council."
Zephyros took the letter, his fingers brushing against the wax seal bearing the royal insignia. His stomach churned as he broke the seal and read the contents. The letter was brief but chilling: a summons to the palace. The council had decided on a date for Iris's sacrifice.
I just left her room! It hasn't been thirty minutes yet.
His hands trembled as he lowered the letter, his mind racing. The servant lingered, clearly waiting for a response, but Zephyros dismissed them with a curt nod. Alone again, he crumpled the letter in his fist and threw it across the room.
"No," he muttered, his voice low and fierce. "Not yet. Not like this."
He paced the room, his earlier despair giving way to a simmering rage. The candle's flame caught his eye again, and this time, he saw it not as a symbol of destruction but as a beacon of hope. He grabbed his cloak and a small dagger from his desk, tucking it into his belt.
As he prepared to leave, Zephyros' thoughts were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He knew the risks and consequences, but the thought of losing Iris was unbearable. He recalled her words: "My death will mean something." But now, he questioned whether her sacrifice was truly necessary.
"If I do nothing, I'm complicit," he thought, his jaw tightening. "But if I act, I risk everything. Is it worth it? Can I even make a difference?"
The answer came to him as he glanced at the broken owl. "I couldn't protect this, but I can protect her. Even if it costs me everything."
Zephyros sprinted down the corridor, his breath ragged, his heart pounding in his ears. The elevator loomed ahead, its doors a gateway to the cave where the ritual would take place. They're all there, he thought, his mind racing. They're mocking me. They think I'll just stand by and let this happen.
He slid past servants and guards, his movements frantic, his face a mask of desperation. A grim smile flickered across his lips. I can protect her. I will.
"Celeste!" he screamed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. But no one answered. The name usually drew a reaction, but today, it was swallowed by the oppressive silence.
He turned a corner, the elevator now in sight, and the faint murmurs from below grew louder, like the whispers of a hungry beast. He slammed his hands against the elevator doors, his fingers jabbing at the button repeatedly, frantically.
"Come on, come on!" he hissed, his voice trembling. Servants passed by, their eyes averted, their murmurs filled with unease. What use is a just god who licks the boots of butchers?
Finally, the elevator arrived with a soft ding. He stepped inside, the doors closing behind him like the jaws of a trap.
The descent felt like an eternity. When the doors opened, Zephyros stepped into the cave, his breath catching in his throat. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something metallic—blood.
The cave was darker than he remembered, more oppressive, more dreadful. Torches lined the walls, their flickering light casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to writhe like living things.
And there she was.
Iris.