The temple grounds were quiet, save for the scraping of chains and the hollow coughs of the weary. But one voice rose among the slaves—low and bitter.
An old man, bones jutting out beneath ragged skin, shook his head.
"That boy… too righteous for his own good. Better he dies wherever they've dragged him. At least then, his heart won't be broken further."
Beside him, a gaunt youth with sunken eyes sneered.
"Foolish old man. What do you think this place is? Justice? Mercy?" He spat on the dirt. "This world belongs to the strong. Always has, always will. The weak don't just suffer here—they are erased. Weakness is no longer a state, it is a sin. And we—" his lips twisted, "we are all sinners."
Chains clinked in the dark.
Azarel hung from the dungeon wall, wrists bound high, his knees pressed into stone slick with blood and damp. His chest rose and fell in shallow sobs. Tears cut streaks through the grime on his face.
The door scraped open. Gareth stepped in. His whip dangled lazily in one hand, the stench of wine heavy on his breath.
"Well, well. The little hero." His laugh echoed off the walls. "What was that stunt you pulled today, boy? Trying to save her? You think you're special? Want to die so soon?"
He leaned closer, pressing the whip's leather handle under Azarel's chin, forcing his tear-streaked face upward.
"You want to be the next sacrifice?" Gareth's grin was wide and cruel. "I see you've got a soft spot for pain. You love being beaten, don't you? Hah!"
Azarel's breath hitched, his eyes flickering with fear and silent fury.
Gareth chuckled darkly. "Do you even know how the sacrifices are chosen?"