> "The greatest enemy to man isn't the beings from Sheol...
but the men who present themselves as perfect vessels for disposal."
Dawn broke—pale, colorless, and cruel.
Two dead amethyst eyes opened in a dark cell. Nothing looked back at them but emptiness.
Silence.
The rusted hinges groaned as a guard stormed in.
> "Up. Quickly. Come forth, slave."
Chains scraped against stone. Azareal rose wordlessly.
The gate opened to reveal a barren field washed in dull morning light. A line of slaves stretched across it—frail bodies, hollow eyes, souls stripped bare. Each face was a mirror of oppression, each breath an echo of submission.
A booming voice cut through the still air:
> "The Vartis Family has come for selection."
A dark green carriage rolled in, its wheels whispering against the dust. From it stepped a young man dressed in aristocratic finery. His dark grey eyes, rounded at the edges, betrayed his impure lineage. His black hair framed a face too smooth, too amused.
Mockery danced in his gaze as he walked down the line.
He inspected each slave like one would examine cattle—lifting chins, turning faces, gripping arms to test muscle.
> "Usable."
"Too weak."
"A waste to the family."
Each word sealed a fate.
Those deemed "waste" were dragged aside—then silenced. Permanently.
The young noble didn't flinch. His smile remained calm, entertained, as if killing was merely the punctuation to his morning routine.
Azareal stood still when the noble reached him. Their eyes met for a breath too long.
The noble tilted his head.
> "Hmm… usable."
A guard immediately yanked the chain on Azareal's collar and pulled him toward another carriage—this one filled with the chosen. Faces blank, chained neck to neck, they swayed like ghosts.
As he stepped up into the dim interior, a faint chill ran down his spine.
From the same carriage the noble had arrived in, hidden behind the curtain, a pair of brown, star-shaped eyes watched him closely—unblinking.
And then the carriage door shut.