Azareal woke in the dungeon, chains clinging to the wall, his arms stretched and trembling.
Cold air seeped through cracks in the stone, biting at his pale skin. His amethyst eyes opened slowly—empty, hollow—and he muttered,
"I don't… remember anything after Kalel. What happened to Kalel? Was that all… a dream?"
He laughed weakly, a broken sound echoing against the damp walls.
"No wonder… I'm daydreaming myself out of this nightmare."
The laugh turned to sobs—low, trembling ones.
"I can't remember anything. What happened? The only thing I remember is… the gods will notice… Notice what?"
A creak.
The iron door groaned open.
Gareth stepped in, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You're getting more delusional by the day," he said, voice sharp as a blade. "A little touch might fix that."
He dragged in a long chain lined with iron thorns.
Before Azareal could move, the chain whipped through the air and tore across his face.
He screamed.
Gareth grabbed his throat, lifting his face to the dim torchlight. "There are prayers going on," he hissed. "You don't want to interrupt those… do you?"
Then, smiling faintly, he traced a finger along the bleeding wound. "This blood—dripping like that—it really brings out your eyes."
He laughed darkly and walked away, leaving only the sound of dripping blood and Azareal's shallow breathing.
Azareal hung there, staring at the ground.
Bleak.
Unmoving.
Blood trailed down in silent drops, and he whispered, voice trembling—
"It was a dream…"