"Ahhh… what's that thing—was she a woman? She was there… and then she was gone…" Azareal muttered, drenched in cold sweat.
The other temple slaves cast him fleeting glances, some in pity, others in disgust.
A middle-aged man in rags with dim cyan eyes sighed to his fellow slave.
"See? That's what the torture does to you. It breaks your mind. He lost his will the day he stepped into this temple and got branded. Now he's just waiting for whatever fate the gods throw next. A pity…"
The other man sneered.
"That fool? He tried saving a sacrifice, now he can't even save himself from his own thoughts."
He let out a low, bitter laugh. "Don't know why they keep him alive, though. Maybe he's Gareth's new plaything."
They both went back to cleaning the statues of the gods, the air thick with incense and despair.
Azareal sat motionless, staring into the faint reflection of his own eyes in the temple's marble floor.
Was she real… or am I losing what's left of me