"What is pain? What is true anguish?"
"Is it watching everyone you hold dear die slowly before your eyes?"
"Or feeling the touch of an artist—one who carves through your flesh with tools of death—as you sing praises to his craft?"
"What is pain?"
"What is despair?"
A guttural, distorted scream tore through the night.
Blood splattered across the stone walls — thick, heavy drops crawling down like ink. The ground beneath seemed to drink greedily, crying out for more.
And through it all, she stood there — the healer.
Her face was pale, emotionless. Her eyes, dark brown and hollow, watched without a flicker of pity. She, blessed by the gods to restore life, now calmly observed as the one she was meant to heal was torn limb from limb…
And each time his body was shattered—
She restored him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
His blood painted her face a cruel shade of crimson. His lifeless eyes reflected in hers, like a mirror between agony and indifference.
The dagger twisted deeper — black metal splitting his stomach open from within, spilling him across the floor in a grotesque masterpiece. The air was thick with the scent of iron, the sound of flesh parting, the rhythm of suffering.
His screams rose — raw, broken, echoing against the high stone walls.
But none of it mattered.
It was all his doing.
Who told him?
What moved him… to disrupt the Sacrifices three times in a row?
He had invited this torment upon himself.
When the priest gave the signal, she moved again—hands glowing faintly with divine light. She healed his wounds, restored his body to pristine condition…
Only for his eyes to be gouged out.
And fed to him.
Still, he did not die.
Still, he endured.
The healer paused for a moment, staring down at him — what little remained of him — and for the faintest second, she wondered:
Was it his will that kept him alive?
Or had Death simply not found him worthy enough to be welcomed into peace?