"A memory holds power not because of what took place, but because of the emotion it carries… especially despair."
"Child, stretch forth your hands."
Azareal raised his trembling hands toward the hooded figure. The moment their palms met, the chants began — old, forgotten syllables echoing through the chamber.
Obel's eyes narrowed. There was something wrong about the boy.
Yes, many slaves reeked of death and hopelessness, but this one carried an air that pulled at the senses—thick, suffocating, almost alive.
Still, he watched in silence. The hooded figure's voice deepened.
> "Rez… Lebach… Ja'L… Betol… Zei—"
And then—
Silence.
The chant stopped.
The light from the sigils dimmed.
The air grew heavy as though the hall itself was holding its breath.
Obel's brow furrowed. Why stop before the final word? he thought. What happened?
The hooded figure trembled slightly, the faint outline of their lips moving beneath the cowl.
When the voice finally came, it was dry and lifeless.
> "No talent. No divine lineage."
The words echoed through the chamber.
The chanting ceased.
Every eye turned to the boy standing still, hands lowered, his dim amethyst eyes unfocused — unreadable.
Obel felt something twist inside him. The reading was wrong.
He could feel it.
Something beneath that quiet face was moving.
But the hall didn't notice.
Chains rattled. The next slave was pushed forward.
And beneath Azareal's feet, the sigil flickered—once—like a dying heartbeat.
Then it vanished.