It’s the High Priest’s least favorite place to be — The Seer’s personal chambers, constantly overcast with a haze of smoke from all the burning incense. But in almost divine comedy, a candelabra was knocked over upon entering. The clatter of metal against the cold marble floor interrupted the perpetual stillness.

“Sh*t,” Jason began unapologetically, strolling in like he didn’t just disturb someone out of their holy rest. “So sorry about that.”

He’s not sorry at all.

He’s not sorry about most things, actually.

But who would ever accuse him of having such gall? Perhaps it was a cruel decision, on Bruce’s part, to cast Jason to the side into a life of religious devotion. Like some form of sick and twisted penance in hopes that the prodigal son he became, would one day forgive and forget the literal sins of the father.

But his atypicality was why he excelled in the role of High Priest in the first place. From the beginning, he had always been different from the Emperor’s other children. Born from the lowest of the low, killed, and torn away from heaven and only revived through the cruel grace of the Gods. Who else, other than him, a non-believer brought back to life, could truly understand the power of religion?

“You know why I’m here,” he continued, cutting to the chase, fingers creasing open the covers of the leather notebook he always carried. The low timbre of his voice and tap of a quill against parchment indicated his impatience. “Did you have any dreams?”

The Seer heralded from a carefully cultivated line of psychics and prophets, the so-called gift of foresight divinely bestowed with each generation of human intervention. But with every future seen, it was the duty of the High Priest to inscribe it for the masses. The dynamic itself was like two mirrors reflecting off of each other — Sometimes Jason wondered if the depths of the Seer’s devotion were as genuine as it seemed on the surface. Or, perhaps, they both simply were resigned to fall into the roles they were forced to play.

How depressing.