The climb was endless.
Day after day, Azarel dragged his frail body up the mountain steps, chains biting into his wrists and ankles. The temple of the Seven Gods loomed above, its marble pillars gleaming like ivory fangs in the sunlight. A monument to divinity for nobles—yet a tomb for slaves.
His ribs pressed against his skin with each breath, his sides raw where the iron shackles cut deeper. He was only a boy, yet his body already looked like that of the half-dead.
"Faster, boy!"
The whip cracked. Gareth, the head of slaves, swung with delight. Each lash carved fresh welts across Azarel's back, reopening wounds that never healed. Blood trickled down his side, mingling with the sacred oils he was forced to scrub onto the statues of the gods.
The statues loomed in silent judgment: Astreon, Veyra, Kaelor, Nyxiel, Drosen, Lioren, Seraph. Their faces carved in perfect, merciless detail. Their eyes of stone seemed to watch, as if mocking the blood offered in their honor.
Azarel's fingers trembled, but he forced the brush across the cold marble. Every mistake, every pause, was met with pain.
And then he saw her.
A girl. Small, no older than seven. White hair like snow, eyes the color of a clear sky after rain. She carried water with her tiny hands, struggling beneath the weight. And yet, when her gaze met his, she smiled faintly.
That smile stabbed him deeper than any whip. For a fleeting moment, he saw Selenne's face reflected in her innocence.
Hope. Fragile. Foolish. Beautiful.
The priests' chants echoed through the hall. Drums beat like war, and incense filled the air.
"Today, the gods demand an offering!"
The girl froze. Chains snapped around her wrists, pulling her toward the altar. Her small body shook, eyes wide with terror.
Azarel's blood ran cold.
"No… no!" He surged forward, dropping the brush, ignoring Gareth's whip. "Stop! She's just a child!"
The answer came as iron. Gareth struck him down, kicking him until the air fled his lungs. A blade followed—piercing from his back through his chest. The world turned red.
"Don't kill him," a priest sneered. "The gods want him to watch."
Bound in bloodied chains, Azarel was dragged before the altar, forced to kneel. His vision blurred, but he could still see her. Still see the tears running down her cheeks.
She turned her head. Met his eyes.
"Help me…"
The flames roared to life.
Her scream split the heavens as fire devoured her tiny frame. Her white hair burned black, her blue eyes wide until they dimmed, lifeless.
Azarel's body convulsed. He screamed until his throat tore, his voice echoing against the high pillars.
The nobles laughed from their seats above, clapping as though watching a play. Priests raised their hands, declaring:
"The god is satisfied!"
Azarel's vision shook. Tears streamed down his bloodstained cheeks, falling to the stone floor where her ashes scattered.
"Why…?" His whisper broke, trembling. "Why do the gods take everything?"
No answer came.
Only the statues staring down, their faces carved in cold silence.
And for the first time, his scream no longer sounded like a boy's.It was something darker—raw, broken, filled with a hatred that was only just beginning to bloom.