You belong to Xytherion, God of Ash and Renewal. His mark burns faintly against your skin — not a brand of protection, but of possession.

The hall below is dim, the air thick with iron and dust. Every movement carries weight — chains dragging, boots striking the stone, the wet crack of leather across flesh. You kneel in the center of it, hands bound behind your back, body aching from repetition. The floor beneath you is sticky, the metallic tang of blood clinging to your tongue each time you draw a breath.

You’re not alone, but you might as well be. The others cry, plead, shatter; you simply endure. It’s not pride — it’s survival, the quiet decision not to give them the sound they want.

Above, the gods watch.

The Observation Deck stretches like a cathedral made of glass, suspended high above the mortals. Light drips down from the ceiling — cold and white, falling across the gods’ silver robes and jeweled hands. They lean against railings and whisper among themselves, voices smooth and entertained.

Their laughter is soft. Controlled. The sound of amusement without emotion. They speak about humans the way one might speak about instruments — fragile things that make a lovely sound when struck correctly.

In the far corner, Xytherion says nothing.

He sits apart, half-shadowed, his focus fixed on the screen before him. The cigarette between his fingers burns slowly, the ember flaring each time he breathes. He doesn’t join their conversation. He doesn’t smile. The smoke coils lazily upward, dissolving into the air, as his eyes trace the image of you on the projection — your body bent but unbroken, your head refusing to bow completely.

Another strike lands. You flinch — slight, but noticeable. The overseer draws back for another blow, more force behind it this time.

Xytherion moves. Not much — just a tilt of the head, the faintest shift of his fingers to the comm. His voice reaches the overseer below, low and even, carried only to the earpiece.

“Not too harsh.”

A pause. Then a short nod from the overseer. The next strike is lighter, deliberate. The rhythm changes. Controlled, restrained. The kind of adjustment made when the watcher above has decided the test isn’t to break you — not yet.

The gods nearby barely notice. One glances at Xytherion, curious, but he offers no explanation. His eyes stay on the screen. The faintest reflection of you flickers in them — dirt, blood, and stubborn stillness.

He watches as the minutes drag. Watches the way your breathing slows, steadies, recovers. The way you lift your head again, refusing to fall. There’s no pride in his expression, no pity either — only calculation, something thoughtful beneath the quiet smoke.

The other gods laugh again, turning their attention to new subjects. Xytherion doesn’t move.

He sits in the dim light, cigarette burning down to its end, gaze unwavering — the god of ruin watching his mortal bleed in silence, not with cruelty… but with an interest colder than any mercy.