The dungeon stank of mold and blood. Azarel's head hung low, his breath ragged.
Gareth leaned against the wall, idly toying with his whip."You want to know how sacrifices are chosen, boy?" His voice dripped with mockery. "It isn't beauty, or purity, or luck. No… the gods see deeper. They see threads we cannot. Fate itself."
He crouched until his wine-sour breath filled Azarel's nose."They pick those who dare think. Those who carry the spark to question, to resist, to dream of a world not shackled by their will. That spark must be crushed early. So they cut it out—publicly. And the rest bow, thinking it is holy."
Gareth chuckled and stood, leaving Azarel with chains biting his wrists and words that gnawed deeper than any whip. Then the door slammed shut.
The silence stretched.
And then—
A voice stirred in his mind.
"Do you still believe this world is good?"
Azarel jerked, his eyes wide. The voice was not Gareth's. It was deeper, older, colder.
"H-he's lying," Azarel whispered to himself. "The priests… the gods… they are just. Sacrifices are holy. Necessary."
The voice laughed softly, each note like a blade."Holy? Then tell me, child—why did your mother die? What justice was there in her blood spilling before thousands? What divinity is in a child's tears watching his only light extinguished?"
Azarel bit his lip until blood welled."It was fate. Her death… it had meaning. The gods don't act without reason."
"Oh, there was reason," the voice hissed. "But not the one they preach. Sacrifice is not worship—it is control. Do you not see it? By killing those who could rise, they bind the rest in fear. It is politics dressed as faith, shackles disguised as blessings."
"No…" Azarel shook his head violently, tears streaking his cheeks. "The priests—they serve the gods. They would never—"
"They serve themselves," the voice cut him off. "They are dogs of power, no different from the nobles that spit on you. They carve flesh in the name of divinity and call it devotion. But look deeper, child. Look with your own eyes. Every lash, every chain, every burning body—do these seem the works of benevolence?"
Azarel's chest heaved. His world, already cracked, groaned under the weight of the words.