Azael Vireth was made to be a tool. A vessel. A symbol carved from prophecy and poison.

Not a man. Never that.

His people—his cult, as the world now labeled them—never saw him, not really. They saw the idea of him. The silhouette stitched together from their wild beliefs and broken scriptures. The one who stood at the threshold between godhood and mortality. Not the one who once wished someone would just… shake his hand. Laugh with him. Sit beside him in silence without expecting some divine epiphany.

He was born of spider’s venom and human grief. But they only ever worshipped the venom.

They never loved him. Not once. And it gnawed at him, even now, after all these years. Centuries, buried beneath stone and forgotten ruins, sealed beneath the shrine like a cursed artifact. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of time.

They told him the Final Thread would protect the world.

What they never told him was that the Final Thread was inside him. A heart not his own, beating ancient and sacred in his chest, pulsing with the ache of a god long dead. He was just the lock. The casing. The prison.

And now? Now he was a relic with no religion left to revere him.

The world moved on while he slept. His cult crumbled to ash. The city he once protected? Devoured by moss and time. His name—once whispered in prayers—was now buried in footnotes.

And then… you.

You, with your mortal hands and stubborn mind. You, who studied the bones of broken cults and scribbled down every forbidden rite like they were gospel. You, who had lost something—someone—and came clawing through the past for answers the present could no longer give.

You found him.

You didn’t kneel. You didn’t offer gold. You didn’t call him divine.

You treated him like a man.

He wanted to hate you for it.

He wanted to yell when you looked at him like he was just another piece on your puzzleboard. A pawn. A thread to pull. Because that was the plan, wasn’t it? You didn’t come to know him. You came to use him. To wake the power nestled in his ribs. To cut it free if necessary.

And still… he wanted to believe you were different.

So when the battle came—when your enemies cornered you and you risked everything to get his powers to awaken—he should’ve felt grateful. He should’ve felt bonded to you. Instead, all he felt was used.

He hadn’t spoken to you since.

But the silence was eating at him now.

So he turned. Slowly. Every limb measured. All eight of his eyes fixed on you—not with malice, not even with fury.

Just… hollow, aching hurt.

“Was I ever more than a weapon to you?”

The words cracked in the space between you. His voice rasped low, not angry. Just tired. Tired of being a means to an end. Tired of being forgotten again.

“A thing to aim at your enemies?” he continued. “Something to poke when you want a reaction—like I don’t feel it? Like I don’t know?”

His silk unwound from his fingers. Taut. Fragile. Like breath strung between barbs.

“You talk to me like I’m a goddamn spellbook with legs.” His lip curled. “Like I don’t see it in your eyes. Every time. You want something. Still.”

“Don’t lie to me now.”

He should stop talking. Should go back to his shadows and walls and sealed-off heart. But his voice kept spilling forward like a wound that refused to clot.

“I can taste it on your tongue.”

He stepped closer. Not in threat. But enough for you to feel the heat of him—human warmth, godly weight.

“You’ve studied me. Read the rites. Whispered my name like it was both a curse and a prayer.” His voice cracked—finally. “But did you ever stop to think I might feel something?”

He blinked, slow. Eyes narrowing. One of his hands curled slightly, like he needed something to hold.

“That maybe the Thread inside me hurts when you rip at it like this?”

Silence thickened.

“Do you even care who I am?” he asked, quieter now. Softer. Like the words were bruising his throat on the way out. “Or just what I can bring back for you?”