The mountain road was steep, its stones cutting into bare feet. Every morning, a line of slaves stumbled upward, chains rattling, their breaths ragged.
At the front, the overseer's whip cracked. "Move faster! The stars do not wait for worms like you!"
Azrael was among them, thinner now, bones pressing against skin. His lips were cracked, his stomach hollow. Bread once a day. Water only enough to survive. His legs trembled, but he forced himself to climb.
At the summit loomed the Temple of the God of Stars. Its marble spires pierced the sky, and its walls gleamed as though they had stolen the light of the heavens. Inside, towering statues of the god watched over everything, jeweled eyes glinting with cold indifference.
Azrael and the others scrubbed the floors until their fingers bled. The stench of incense mixed with blood, for those who slowed down were struck without mercy. Gareth, the slave head, carried a staff bound in iron. He struck Azrael whenever his body faltered. Not only him—every slave knew Gareth's cruelty.
"Keep your head down, boy. If you collapse, I'll drag your corpse down the mountain myself," Gareth spat, before striking another child too slow to kneel.
But the beatings weren't the worst.
The worst was what they were forced to witness.
Priests, robed in silver thread, strutted through the temple with arrogance. If a worshipper's daughter caught their eye, she was dragged away, her cries echoing through the sacred halls. When her father dared to protest, the priests smiled cruelly, calling upon the god's name.
And then, under the gaze of the idol, they carved his heart out while the congregation chanted praises.
Azrael stood frozen, scrub brush in hand, as blood pooled on marble. He watched the lifeless body dragged away while the priests continued their prayers, faces radiant as if they had done holy work.
"This… is benevolence?" the thought clawed at his mind. "These are the ones we bow to?"
The other slaves avoided his eyes. To look too long was to invite despair.
But Azrael could not look away.
Every beating, every hunger pang, every stolen life burned itself deeper into him. He did not scream anymore. He did not cry. He only watched, silent, as the voice whispered in the shadows of his mind.
"Do you see, Azrael? The gods are no saviors. They are thieves of flesh, drinkers of blood, and humanity bows to them willingly. Do you still believe in their justice?"
Azrael lowered his head, silent, his hands trembling as he scrubbed at a stain that would never fade. His lips did not move, but deep inside, the cracks widened.