"Father is dead, yes, he is dead. He was killed..." The voice wavers, as if uncertain. "Killed by whom? Ah yes, I wonder... Father died by someone's hand. My hand? No, it's a lie. My own father?" The voice falters again, the confusion palpable. "I won't kill Father. Who kills their own father?" Silence follows, thick and unsettling. "Unless Father lied... Yes, lying is a sin. The five major sins."
A pale hand moves toward a sheath—an ordinary white, not unnatural, but still stark against the dim light. The fingers brush the hilt of a sword. "Yellow," the voice continues, quietly now, almost reverent. "A sin, a sin, a sin." It halts for a moment before continuing, The sword... at the edges, it's yellow, a vibrant yellow-orange hue, almost glowing, even in this absolute darkness. Only the dim flicker of a dying candle near the window gives life to the otherwise oppressive void.
