The dungeon stank of rust and blood. Chains clinked in the dark, each sound a reminder of the weight pulling Azarel's frail body downward. His lips trembled as his glassy eyes fixed on the stone floor.
When the iron door screeched open, his shoulders stiffened. Gareth stepped inside, torch in one hand, obsidian knife in the other. Behind him walked the silent healer, face as blank as carved stone.
Azarel's voice broke into a hoarse cry."I thought you were done… Haven't you had your pound of flesh? What more do you want?"
Gareth chuckled low, his boots echoing on the damp floor. "Pound of flesh? Oh, boy, you flatter me. No… I think I'll take something more precious today."
He seized Azarel's face, fingers digging into his cheeks, and pried his jaw open. Azarel's eyes went wide, his wrists thrashing against the chains until flesh tore and bone scraped metal.
The obsidian blade slipped between his teeth. A hiss of steel on flesh.
Agony flared. His muffled wail roared through the chamber as Gareth sliced, slow and deliberate, carving his tongue free. Blood filled his mouth. He gagged, thrashed—yet the chains held.
Gareth pulled back, holding the severed tongue with a smirk. "Now that's a scream I won't forget. Today, you won't be healed. Let's see how long you last before your silence kills you." He spat on Azarel's face and strode out, the healer trailing behind without a word.
When the door slammed shut, only the sound of Azarel's ragged breathing remained. Blood dripped down his chin. His chest heaved, eyes flickering but blank. Slowly, his head fell, and darkness swallowed him whole.
He awoke in a place that was not a place. A ground of shadows stretched endlessly, thick mist curling like smoke. His body felt weightless, yet his soul screamed.
A laugh echoed. Dry. Mocking. Eerie.
From the haze, a figure emerged—its form shifting, unclear, like the memory of something never truly seen.
"Cat got your tongue?" the voice mocked, jagged and sharp like broken glass. "…Ah, forgive me. You can't answer. I suppose I'll do the talking, then."
Azarel stared, blank eyes barely registering the silhouette.
"Child, your existence is painful to watch. Your suffering? Amusing at best. I've seen agony, felt it, drowned in it… and yours is still nothing new." The figure tilted its head, grinning with teeth that were too many, too sharp.
It stepped closer. The mist around it hissed.
"I suppose I should tell you my name. After all, your prayers won't reach the gods you so adore."
Azarel's hollow eyes twitched, a faint reaction.
The figure leaned close, whispering with venom."My name is Kalel. One of the Profaned."
It paused, letting the word sink in, then chuckled.
"Sorry to disappoint, child. I am no god you prayed to. I am something far better. A byproduct… a scar on their divinity. Proof that the gods can bleed."