Chapter 17:
The memory of the "Sanctuary of the Blessed" haunted Sanathiel like an echo impossible to silence. That place, cloaked as a refuge, had been a temple of horrors: charity was its mask, and innocence its merchandise.
Sanathiel recalled the cold seizing his body as he cradled a child, struggling to shield him from a cruel fate. Corridors lined with false smiles hid contracts of exploitation and abuse. The "chosen" were sold; the others condemned to servitude until their youth made them desirable for the same depravity.
The image of Manuel, a child with malformations, returned again and again. His voice, between sobs, tormented Sanathiel even now:"Keep quiet… and you won't be next."
By the fire, Manuel watched black bags burn. Inside, children's shoes smoldered—the last witnesses of those who had vanished.
"Cover your ears! Do it like me!" Manuel screamed.
Sanathiel could not. A noise behind a closed door drew him like a magnet. When he pushed it open, he found a burly man lashing a child with a belt, the boy barely able to breathe.
"H… help me…" the child stammered.
Sanathiel, horrified, whispered:"What… what does this mean?"
The man turned, grinning with monstrous delight."Two for the price of one. My best offer today."
The beast within Sanathiel roared. When he regained awareness, the room was a lake of blood. The man lay in pieces, unrecognizable. His trembling hands, drenched to the elbows, bore witness to the slaughter.
At the door, Manuel watched—not with fear, but with fury. Tears streaming, he kicked the man's head."You broke my hand! This is what you deserve!"
He pounded the black bags as well, screaming through sobs:"You always said it! That you liked being hit! Well, this is what you like!"
Sanathiel staggered out. In the reception, other youths spoke with chilling detachment:"If we take his heart now, we can do the transplant. Get a box of ice. I'll handle the incision."
That was the breaking point. His fury exploded without restraint. Power surged, devouring the asylum and all its keepers.
When silence returned, a heavier truth lingered: he would have to erase the memory of the boy who had seen too much. An innocence ensnared in the heart of darkness.
In the present, Arcangel and Risas sat in silence, that past heavy between them.
"Do you think you can bury it so easily?" Risas taunted, though his voice carried an undertone of fear.
"I don't bury it," Arcangel replied. "I live with it. Every day."
"You don't live with darkness, Arcangel. That darkness is you."
"I know. But I will still try to redeem myself."
Risas's gaze softened."We all have demons, brother. Promise me you won't carry yours alone."
Arcangel nodded."Always together."
The echoes of the forest still resonated in their souls. The fate of the children, the lost souls, and the shadows they carried were reminders impossible to ignore.
Arcangel murmured, barely audible:"Sanathiel will remember it all… when I die."
Risas slammed the table, rage spilling out."You can't surrender! If you fall, everything crumbles."
Arcangel met his gaze, calm and resigned."In the end, all will fall into place. Only one victor will remain… and the loser will close the curtain."
Silence enveloped the room. Only whispers of the past lingered, and the promise to face what lay ahead together. Even in the deepest night, a single spark remained—enough to light the way.