The chains rattled faintly as Azarel stirred, his head lifting with effort. His blank eyes, hollow yet trembling with fragments of disbelief, locked onto the shadow before him.
"…Everything I have believed until now is a lie," he whispered, voice hoarse. "All of it… and still, I try to force it into reason. Even when my mother was dragged away, she said it—the gods never make mistakes."
The ancient presence chuckled, low and mocking.
"The gods never make mistakes? Ha… those are the funniest words I have ever heard."
Azarel's lips trembled. "Then… why do you loathe the gods so much?"
The form stilled. Then it spoke, slowly, each word sharpened like a blade:
"Me? Hate the gods? That's childish."
Its tone deepened, venom dripping with every syllable.
"I do not hate them… I loathe them."
Azarel blinked, disbelief flickering in his broken gaze. "I can understand why you loathe them… but you sound so confident. These things… they're spoken only in whispers."
The darkness stirred. A laugh, low and eerie, rolled through the void.
"Whispers are for your kind."
The form leaned closer, voice now a jagged whisper at the edge of his mind.
"I once slit a god's throat."
Azarel's breath caught. His chest seized as if the very air betrayed him. His eyes widened in silent horror.
The form laughed again—darkly, cruelly, its amusement echoing through the hollow cage of Azarel's soul.
"Remember this, child."
"History is not learned in Scriptures."