The man did not curse at the heavens for his fate, but that is only because he knew that there was no one left up there that his words could damn. His father had told him many times of the voice from heavens that addressed all of humanity when it declared so. Nobody doubted whom the voice came from – it possessed such an absolute grandness that in comparison to it everything else shrank to insignificance. And nobody doubted what it said – it was inconceivable that it could lie, for even if it did lie, it seemed natural to everyone that the world would keep rearranging itself until what it said became the truth. The voice was that of the Maker, who proclaimed that he was leaving the world, and that the one who was most worthy would sit upon the divine throne in his stead. He declared that such an honor could only befall the greatest artist. The man used to think that it was tragically fitting, for only an artist would tirelessly keep causing him so much grief, finding beauty in it – although now he would not so easily dare to make such a joke.

The dim light of the torch was flickering on the wet stone of his cell. He has somewhat gotten used to the stench of this place. After all, his throat seemed not to throb as much when he took in only short breaths, and if he did not move the chains would not sear deeper into his wrists and ankles. Nevertheless, too much stale and foul air would occasionally find way into his lungs and he would cough, which made all the nails piercing his back dig even deeper in. However, not a groan more escaped his mouth – "The loudest one always gets the most attention" – he thought, biting into his jaw to choke the sound. He could never see them approaching, the board that he was nailed to made him lie down and stare at the ceiling, but a weak sound of footsteps kept getting louder and louder. The man panicked, fearing that it was already his turn again. There were cells next to his so he would never know whether they were coming for him or someone else, and he always held onto that bit of hope. But when the iron door screeched, the man bitterly realized that his fears came true.

-"Please…" – the man's eyes welled up. Although he had been careful not to needlessly hurt himself by moving until now, he tried to squirm away as soon as the weakly stretching light revealed a tall figure next to him. He knew that the chain binding him would not possibly break from such a poor attempt, but the nails that were grinding his flesh were nothing compared to what was coming.

-"Doin' that again? Calm down" – the torturer said with a hint of regret in a bemused voice – "I'm not here to hurt you this time."

Although the chains stopped rattling, the man looked full of doubt. He could no longer recall exactly when his torment began, but every time someone showed up, they did so with the intention to harm him.

-"Your time here is finished. Get ready for your trial." – Perhaps the man thought that he was being deceived, so he did not reply. He just silently stared while the chains were removed. The pain from being yanked into an upright position cleared his mind and forced him to accept that this was truly happening. When the torturer gouged the final nail out of his body, the man slowly got up only to fall from weakness. The torturer poured a familiar liquid on him, and with a sizzling sound, his wounds started closing. This was how they could peel his skin off and baptize him with boiling water day after day without killing him. Taking a shallow breath, he tried to stand up, and the torturer quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him until he was barely on his feet. He took him down the narrow hallway, stopping in front of an already opened door.

-"Come" – an imposing voice interrupted his daze. The man's vision was blurry, perhaps from spending too long in darkness, but he could barely make out that two men were sitting by a table near a fireplace. There was something strange about this room, he thought. Despite the crackling of the fire the air was chilly, and there was an unnatural darkness that seemed to be swallowing the light. The torturer dragged him to his seat. The chair was still warm, which gave the man a feeling that someone had just been sitting here.

-"What do you think?" – the first interrogator muttered as he looked at the slouched man sitting across him.

-"Not the best, but we don't have plenty of 'em left to pick from." – the second interrogator replied. Although it was a bit hoarse, this voice was undoubtedly female, so the man realized that he had misjudged. – "He's been here for about two months? He didn't lose too much muscle, seems like he's been eating from time to time. A good sign, you know, the leak is only as steady as his will to go on."

-"First of all" – the male interrogator cleared his throat and ordered – "Tell us your name."

The man was all but familiar with what then occurred. Something foreign surged through his body and his cowering posture straightened. His will gave way and his lips moved to obey the order. – "It's Bastet "– A black smoke circled around him, almost as if it was inspecting him. There was something sinister in the way it moved that made him feel like it had a will of its own.

-"Bastet, is it?" – the interrogator took out a flask full of the red liquid that the torturer frequently poured on him and made him drink it – "That should've fixed your throat. Now, the one who brought you here. Tell us how it all happened."

Bastet hesitated. If only he could keep silent. If he never spoke of it, there'd be nothing to be false. Saying it would make it more real, and far more frightening to bear. But nonetheless, he felt the familiar numbness overcome him, and a weak voice escaped his mouth against his will, recounting the story. – "It was around noon that I heard a faraway scream. The forest is just above our village so we've heard plenty of those before, although it was a bit unusual for animals to be hunting during the day. The sun hadn't turned purple in the past few weeks, so we weren't worried about anything crossing over. We just continued working the fields" – Bastet's shaky voice was muffled by a loud gulp – "It took a few screams, each getting louder, for us to figure out something was wrong. Father took my sister inside, and I helped barricade the door. No roads lead to our village and there's hardly any trade, so it's not usual for us to deal with bandits. Father armed himself with the only sword we had, and I took up a rake."

-"If I… If only we knew! We… No, we shouldn't have stayed inside!" – he raised his voice, which seemed to further excite the black smoke pervading the room. It seemed like it was feeding off of his agony. He wanted to curse, but his tongue betrayed him, and the words that came out of his mouth were still recounting the story. – "We didn't wait long…" – he growled and tried to swallow his words, but he was given an order, and he could not go against it.

-"I… I don't know what happened after... There was a bright flash and then it was very warm. When I came to, I found myself to be staring at the sky. The house was blown up. My head was too heavy to turn, and my body hurt all over. I heard no groans, but I could let none out myself and I was alive, so I hoped that my family would be too."

-"But before long I heard a voice exclaim in surprise. She congratulated me on surviving her attack. She pointed out that there was a large hole" – Bastet gripped the center of his chest – "right around here, and that it was impressive that I managed to live for so long. As I was running out of blood to bleed, she made a suggestion…" – Bastet squealed, balling up his fists on his knees – "My father, and my sister, she was so young she…" – He stuttered as he increased the tone of his voice until a silence too thick choked him to a halt. – "They were dead. Everyone in the village too, everyone was dead. And no god was there to save their souls."

-"That bastard asked whether I wanted to die… or fight for a chance to undo all of this." – he loudly gulped – "She asked me to join some war of hers and promised that even if I lost my life fighting, as long as the war was won… She would revive everyone. And then I…"

-"And then you made the blood oath to her." – the female interrogator interrupted – "Gremory sure has her way with words. She bends wills so well that I doubt she even needs Ariadne's help."

-"The ritual was a success." – The second interrogator replied as the black smoke coiled around his arm. Bastet thought it looked almost like it was whispering something to him – "But it seems like he only has about a year worth of life left in him. And with a leak of that size, things can get quite dangerous when he turns."

-"Maybe." – the woman objected – "But do you want to be the one explaining to Lord Nillen why we haven't gathered enough men?"

The other interrogator shook his head – "Definitely not. But it's a damn shame we have to use him in the infantry. A few more months here, and the leak would've been far more stable. And if he matured…" – He sighed, and then turned to the torturer – "Gorgo, hand him over to Sava. We need him ready for the battle tomorrow."

The torturer faithfully followed his order. He grabbed Bastet's shoulder, pushing him further through the dark hallway, and then onto a staircase, after which they turned left. With the creak of a large door, Bastet took in the first bits of fresh air since what seemed like an eternity. The warm light of the setting sun caressed his swollen cheeks, and the grass brushed his sore feet. It was strangely cruel, he thought, being reminded that the world is the same as always outside of those four cruel walls of his cell.