Page 96 of Devoured

“Varnar.” I stepped toward him slowly, savoring every beat of his fear. “Do you remember what you did to me? That night in your office? The way you carved your initial into my lower back like I was livestock?”

“I was treating you! The Judge’s methods—”

“You raped dozens of women. Hundreds, probably. Called it treatment. Felt entitled to our bodies because we were crazy.”

I leaned close. “And you never felt guilt. Just disappointment when we fought back.”

I was close enough now for him to see the divine fire in my eyes. To smell brimstone on my breath. To understand that his definition of power had been a child’s toy compared to what stood before him.

“Please,” he whispered. “I had no choice. The Judge—”

“There’s always a choice.”

I grabbed his throat, lifting him easily. My claws punctured skin—just enough to draw blood. “You chose power. Chose cruelty. Chose to feed on the vulnerable. And you enjoyed it. I can smell your enjoyment. It clings to you like cologne.”

The extraction began slowly. I wanted him to feel every second.

I held him suspended, watching his tears burn tracks down his face. That clean presence from the wedding brushed against me again—faint but unmistakable.

“The irony,” I said softly, tightening my grip on his throat. “You named this place after a patron saint of the mentally ill, then used it to drive them madder.”

Varnar’s eyes widened. He felt it too—something watching that had waited centuries for this moment.

“Every woman who saw that name and hoped for sanctuary.” I leaned closer, letting him see the divine fire in my eyes. “You turned a saint’s protection into the perfect trap.”

“I’m sorry!” he screamed, tears running down his cheeks like acid, burning his skin. “Oh god, I’m sorry! I didn’t—I didn’t understand—”

“Too late for understanding. Far too late for sorry.”

I still held Varnar by the throat, his face purple, his sanity cracking like ice on a pond. Each fracture revealed something uglier underneath—the truth of what he was without the polish, without the justifications, without the certainty that he deserved to take whatever he wanted.

“Actually,” I mused, studying his broken form, “your suffering has barely begun.”

A fresh pool of blood opened on the floor.

“No, please,” he choked. “Just kill me—”

“Death?” I laughed. “Death is mercy, Varnar. You’re going to live forever. Forever with the weight of what you’ve done. Forever feeling what they felt. Forever knowing exactly what kind of monster you are.”

I hurled him into the black pool. His screams echoed as he fell between worlds growing fainter but never ending until the portal sealed behind him with a satisfied sigh.

I turned.

Marion, Isaac, and Sela stood in the doorway, watching everything. They were covered in blood and dust from freeing the patients, but they stood tall. Unbroken.

“You freed them,” I observed.

“Every last one,” Marion confirmed, chin raised despite the fear in her eyes.

“And you stayed.” I stated.

“Someone had to witness this,” Sela said quietly, looking at me. “Someone had to remember.”

“We saw the truth below,” Isaac added. “We can’t unsee it. Wouldn’t want to.”

“Come closer,” I commanded.

They approached without hesitation, though I could smell their fear. It was clean fear—honest. Not like the cultists’ terror, which reeked of guilt. These three feared my power, but not my judgment.