The hall began to stir with noise.
Whispers. Sneers. Mockery.
> "So he's even more worthless than a slave?"
"To think such people still exist… no affinity? He must be cursed."
"Look at him—thin, broken. A pitiable existence."
Obel's eyes narrowed. No affinity? Impossible.
What I felt from that boy… that pressure… it wasn't human.
He muttered under his breath, "Something's wrong with that boy."
The amber glow of dying lanterns flickered, casting long shadows that swayed like restless spirits.
All around, the voices of the slaves bled into a hollow blur.
Inside Azareal's mind, a thought kept echoing—like a cracked record skipping endlessly:
> Again? Is this my fate? To be worthless wherever I am?
The temple, and now here… So even death too?
His fingers twitched.
A faint sound—wet and unnatural—whispered from his palm.
Unseen by all, an eye had opened there.
Dark red, veined with black smoke, bleeding faintly as it stared directly at the hooded priest.
It blinked once, slow and deliberate.
The priest froze. His lips trembled.
Words fell from his mouth in a trembling daze:
> "See ye not Evil… and speak not of what's hidden in the depths of Sheol…"
Then—
SILENCE!
A voice boomed from the darkness above, cutting through the hall.
The figure hidden deep within the shadows had spoken, cold and commanding.
He was about to continue—but then stopped.
Something was approaching him.
From the platform's far end, two eyes opened—
brown, but shaped like stars—glowing faintly with starlight.
They moved without sound, cutting through the dark, closing in on the speaker.
The hall went still.
And the Rite continued, blind to what had just awakened.