Footsteps echoed down the stone corridor as Jorik and two other guards dragged me out of the cage.
Iron chains scraped against the floor with an ear-piercing clatter, as Malachar walked ahead of us with an eerie, calm gait.
"Where are we going?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"The ritual chamber," Jorik answered simply, sweat still visible on his brow. "Master Malachar would like you to witness something before the ceremony begins."
We passed through several dark corridors, leaving the prison area and heading deeper into the underground complex. The air grew colder, and I could smell the thick scent of blood—a scent all too familiar to me.
The ritual chamber was at the end of the longest corridor. A large wooden door carved with necromantic symbols swung open with an eerie creak. Inside, the light of black candles cast dancing shadows on the stone walls.
Elira was already there, tied to an iron pole in the center of the room. Her blue eyes widened as she saw me being led in, a mixture of relief and worry evident on her face.
"Why have you been brought here?" she whispered as I was pinned to the pole next to her.
"To watch the show," I answered, surveying the room. A large stone altar stood at the far end of the room, its dark surface stained with dried blood.
Around it, ritual tools were scattered—ceremonial knives, silver bowls, and dark crystals that pulsed with supernatural energy.
Malachar stood before the altar, pulling various items from a black leather bag. "Before the main ritual begins," his voice echoed through the room, "there is one thing we must complete first."
The door to the room opened again, and several guards entered the ritual chamber. They were dragging something—or rather, someone.
The goblin that Elira had healed.
The small creature was bound with thick ropes, his eyes gleaming with panic. When he saw Elira, the expression on his face changed to a strange mixture of guilt and hope.
"Healer," the goblin whispered, his voice hoarse.
"Will you save me again?"
Elira shook her head desperately. "I can't. I… I'm bound."
"Touching," Malachar said in a mocking tone. "A touching reunion." He took the ceremonial knife from the altar, dark eyes staring at the goblin with sadistic satisfaction.
"But unfortunately, this goblin is no longer useful. He has been 'contaminated' by the priestess' kindness. A hesitant monster is a weak monster."
"Wait," Elira shouted. "He's changed! He protected me from the wolf-man!"
"Exactly," Malachar laughed coldly. "He's changed. And change is the most dangerous thing to our order."
I felt something strange in my chest as I saw the panic in the goblin's eyes. It wasn't sympathy—I'd been alive too long for that. But there was something familiar about the way the creature stared at Elira with desperate hope.
"Priestess," I said quietly, "do you still want to save him?"
"Of course," Elira answered without hesitation.
"He's shown he can change."
"Even after he confessed to eating thirteen human children?"
Elira paused, the conflict clear on her face. "He… he regrets it. I can see it in his eyes."
"Regret doesn't bring back the dead," I said aloud.
"It doesn't give back the childhood lost to the victim's family."
"But regret is the first step toward redemption—"
"Idealist nonsense," I interrupted. "Redemption is a luxury only the living can enjoy. The goblin's victims never get a chance to atone for anything."
Malachar listened to our conversation with a widening smile. "Fascinating. This prisoner truly understands reality well."
He stepped closer to the goblin, the ceremonial knife gleaming in his hand. "But enough arguing. Time for a practical demonstration."
"No!" Elira screamed, struggling against her bonds.
"Don't hurt him!"
"Why?" I asked, voice cold. "He's hurt so many people before. Where's the pity for them?"
"Because killing won't solve the problem," Elira answered through tears. "Violence only breeds violence."
"But sometimes violence is the only language a monster understands," I glared at her. "Do you think that by healing him, by giving him a 'second chance,' you've brought justice to his victims?"
Malachar raised the knife high, the goblin's eyes wide with absolute terror. "Priestess," the necromancer said with a sadistic smile, "let us see how strong your belief in goodness is."
The knife came down in a slow motion, deliberately slowed down to provide maximum mental torture.
The goblin screamed, a high-pitched, ear-splitting scream.
Elira closed her eyes, unable to watch. But I forced her to look.
"Open your eyes, priestess," I said loudly. "See the results of your 'goodness.'"
"I can't—"
"LOOK!" I shouted, the sound echoing throughout the room. "Look at the monster you healed! Look at the creature you gave a 'second chance' to! Look at how he died with the same fear as his victims!"
Elira forced her eyes open, and what she saw made her body tremble violently. Goblin blood dripped onto the stone floor, eyes that had once been full of hope now stared blankly at the ceiling.
"He's dead," Elira whispered, her voice barely audible. "He's dead and… and I couldn't save him."
"Because you can never save anyone," I said mercilessly. "You only play with the lives and deaths of others while feeling superior with your 'goodness.'"
Malachar wiped the blood from the ceremonial knife with a black cloth. "Excellent. This is a valuable lesson, priestess. Do you see how your goodness led to death?"
"No," Elira said quietly, her eyes still fixed on the goblin's corpse. "It wasn't goodness that killed him. It was injustice. Cruelty. The darkness of the human heart."
"But your kindness could not prevent it," I pressed harder. "Your prayers did not save him. Your holy light did not protect him. Your god did not come down to defend him."
Elira turned to me, her blue eyes now filled with something different. It wasn't the naive confidence that had been there before. But it wasn't utter despair either.
There was something darker there. Something that was beginning to burn.
"You were right," she whispered, voice trembling with an emotion I couldn't quite identify. "Goodness alone is not enough."
Malachar raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the change in Elira's tone. "Oh? Priestess is beginning to see the truth?"
"I see," Elira said, her eyes never leaving the goblin corpse, "that this world is too cruel for passive kindness. Too dark for gentle light."
She turned to me again, and I saw something that made my blood run cold. In those blue eyes that had once been filled with compassion, there was now a different fire. A hotter, more dangerous fire.
The fire of vengeance.
"You want me to learn the difference between goodness and stupidity?" Elira whispered, a small smile playing on her lips. "Very well. I will learn."
Malachar laughed in satisfaction. "Wonderful. Perfect corruption. A priestess who falls to darkness is the most powerful ritual ingredient."
But I didn't laugh. Because I knew that what happened to Elira was no ordinary corruption. This was something far more dangerous.
Transformation.
"Do you still believe that goodness will save the world, priestess?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
Elira stared at me with burning eyes, the fire of vengeance burning in the once calm blue depths.
"Goodness?" she whispered, her voice cold as burning ice. "No. But justice? Justice can still be saved."