Chains rattled softly in the damp dungeon as Azarel's body dangled, arms stretched high, wrists blistered where iron bit into his skin. His stomach ached from two days without food, and his throat was cracked, dry, almost voiceless from endless weeping. He muttered to himself, voice faint, torn between faith and despair.
"The gods… they test us. The priests… they're chosen. Sacrifice… it keeps us alive. It must… it must…"
The voice in his head chuckled with cold disdain."Foolish child. If the gods were just, would your mother's screams have been silenced in flames? If the priests were pure, would they trade human flesh for their power?"
Azarel squeezed his eyes shut, trembling.
"No… no… they—they protect us. They… they must…"
The dungeon door groaned open. Gareth entered with heavy boots, a cruel smile plastered on his scarred face. Beside him walked a healer robed in white, his expression disturbingly blank.
Gareth barked a laugh.
"Delusional. Mad. A rat trying to preach about justice in a temple of gods."
He slapped Azarel's hollow cheek, savoring the boy's weakness.
"You embarrassed me, boy. Tried to play hero in front of the nobles. Now… I'll play with you."
From his belt, Gareth pulled a short obsidian knife, its jagged edge gleaming in the dim torchlight.
Azarel's eyes widened. His body twisted in the chains, panic surging — but he couldn't escape.
The first stab wasn't deep. Just beneath the nail of his big toe. Then the knife slid, carving upward, and with a sickening rip the nail tore off. Blood oozed. Azarel screamed — high, raw, and piercing.
The healer stepped forward, hand glowing faintly, flesh knitting instantly — only for Gareth to drive the blade again.
Toe. Healed. Toe. Carved out again.Toe. Healed. Toe. Carved out again.
Again. And again. And again.
The chamber filled with his screams until his voice broke, turning hoarse, then silent cries as tears streamed down his blood-smeared cheeks.
For two hours the torment continued. Fingers. Toes. Nails ripped out, flesh peeled, healed, ripped again. Blood pooled beneath him, crimson staining the dungeon stones.
At last, Gareth's knife hovered above Azarel's lips.
"Your screams bored me. Let's see what you sound like without a tongue."
The obsidian blade dug into his mouth. Azarel thrashed violently, muffled cries gagging in his throat — until Gareth pulled the torn, bleeding tongue free.
The healer sealed the wound without a word. His eyes never flinched. He was not man — he was a tool.
Azarel hung silent. Blood dripped from his lips, eyes wide, staring blankly at the floor. No tears left. No hope. His mind was slipping, shutting down, drowning in the sea of pain.
Gareth spat on his face.
"Pathetic filth. If I had a higher-grade healer, I'd carve out your heart and feed it back to you."
Azarel didn't answer. He couldn't. His body trembled faintly, but his eyes no longer held emotion. They were hollow — broken.
The last thing he remembered before consciousness shattered was the voice whispering in his skull:
"Now you see, child. This is the truth of the world. Anguish is your birthright. Surrender to it… and I will show you power."
Darkness swallowed him.